


Bystander

by scribblemetimbers



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF!Sam, Except the avengers are superpowered and Sam is mosty super Tired, Gen, Sam Wilson is the embodiment of Do No Harm But Take No Shit, Sam Wilson-centric, Sometimes the best friendships are formed in explosions and fighting aliens, they're all bros and they bond over death defying situations and lack of self-control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 15:09:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 52,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16578902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemetimbers/pseuds/scribblemetimbers
Summary: “I just want you to know,” Sam says loudly, cautiously raising his hands, “That I’m very poor and very sleep-deprived and literally the only thing you can kill me for right now are my notes.” He pauses. Wait. On second thought: “Please don’t steal my notes.”“I’m not—I’m not a mugger,” Not Mugger rasps out, and for all that he looks about to keel over and die, the man actually manages to sound offended.-In which Sam is a graduating medical student with a penchant for finding trouble and adopting strays. Sometimes the two are the same, and they come with snark, superpowers, and exactly zero sense of self-preservation.





	1. Chapter 1

**ONE.**

 

**Washington D.C.**

 

“And you’ll text me the minute you’re home, alright?”

 

“I will, I will — ”

 

“I’m not even kidding, Wilson. For real — ”

 

“Riley,” Sam laughs. He squeezes his friend into a side hug before shooing her back into the hospital’s entrance. “I swear that the _minute_ I step into my apartment I will call and let you know that I’m alive.”

 

Riley Cho narrows her eyes. Her hands are obsessively clicking her penlight on and off, like she wants to give it to him so he can use it as some kind of makeshift weapon. She looks assessing and frankly a little bit terrifying, and it doesn't help that she’s currently trying to judge his ability to walk back to his own place without keeling over on some random street.

 

Not for the first time, Sam wants to ask why _Riley_ doesn't look like she's going to keel over in some random street after the hell that was the last forty-eight hours — fifteen new ward admissions, five intubations, and eight codes, one of which happened in the fucking _elevator_ and scared ten years off everyone’s life — because Sam? Sam feels all of that seeping into his brain, his soul, his very _bones,_ okay. Like, just before they left, he spent fifteen solid minutes upending the call room looking for his stethoscope before he realized it was dangling around his shoulders. It was that bad.

 

“My usual route’s fast,” Sam points out instead.

 

Riley gives him a Look. “Your usual route is a dank alleyway between a strange little costume shop and an ancient charnel house.”

 

“It _used_ to be a charnel house! Like fifty years ago, seriously.  It's now a perfectly respectable funeral parlor!”

 

“Oh, a funeral parlor,” Riley repeats, dry as the desert wind. “So you either get shanked by a serial killer in a clown costume or spiritually mauled through demonic possession. I feel so much better."

 

“Shut it, you,” Sam points a finger at her. “Don’t insult my magic shortcut. It shaves a lot of minutes off my old walk.”

 

At that, Riley scowls. "You shouldn't _have_ to walk. Not this late."

 

"... it's not that late."

 

“Might as well. The news is chock full of a sudden increase in missing people and --"

 

"It's ten thirty in the evening, Riley."

 

“God, I’m going to tattoo a watch to Hammer’s _face_. If he were here on time for _once_ in his life, I could drop you off on the way home but -- ”

 

“But he’s not,” Sam counters, placatingly, because Riley’s eyes have gone a little manic, “So you can’t leave the wards, man. When he gets there you can lay into him like I know you want to.” He points to himself, raising his eyebrows. “While me? Well, _I_ have to go because I’m presenting like five patients tomorrow at Dr. Strange’s rounds and I need to cram like holy hell.”

 

“For real?” Riley frowns at him. “You should seriously sleep first. We’re all tired.”

 

Only Riley Cho would think ‘sleep first’ when faced with the prospect of baring their knowledge to the renowned neurosurgeon, who’s reputation to medical students can be boiled down to a neon sign with the words “FLEE ON SIGHT”.

 

Then again, he’s her MD-Phd thesis advisor, and having Stephen Strange hovering over what’s basically been her life’s work must have done bonkers to her sense of self-preservation.

 

Their conversation is interrupted by the trill of her phone.

 

“New admission,” Riley hangs her head after she reads the new text. “Decked to me. I shouldn’t even be there. Hammer should be there. He is _three fucking hours la_ \-- ”

 

“Go,” Sam says, pushing her back. “And stop it with the penlight. It’s like a sad attempt at a bat signal.”

 

“It’s morse code for ‘fuck you with a cactus, Justin Hammer’,” Riley says. Sam doesn’t know if she’s serious or not —knowing Riley, probably is — but she does stop. Her arms go around him instead in a tight, brief hug, and all too soon they’re saying goodbye.

 

“See you tomorrow, Sam,” Riley says, pointing a finger at him as she backs away, her neatly braided hair gleaming in the moonlight. “And I mean it! Get some sleep! Text me when you get home!”

 

“Aye, aye, captain,” Sam says, affecting a sharp, jaunty salute. It earns him a snort, one he returns with a grin, and he waits until her slim form disappears back through the double doors of the hospital before he turns around and starts a light jog home.

 

When Sam finally gets to the alleyway, he comes across a familiar site: large, graffitied metal gray dumpsters standing on either side of the small path and the walls of the old costume shop and the funeral home rising behind them, blocking much of the light from the moon. Washing lines criss-cross the air, hanging from the balconies of various apartments, clothes swaying in the wind. He ducks the tail end of a large black cloak hanging from the lowest line, chuckling, because from his view, it kinda _does_ look like some kind of vampire waiting for its next victim. The alleyway would probably give most people the creeps — it looks like a place people regularly get accosted for their wallets or internal organs — but Sam’s not most people. He’s been using this alley for four years, ever since he veered left instead of right while heading home and found his commute shorter, and anything that gives him free time is, in his opinion, something worth risking his kidneys over, serial killer or no.

 

And as for vampires — well, if there _were_ any supernatural entities here then they’re probably not interested in his sleep-deprived carcass. Probably think he’s too anemic to die. Heh.

 

Sam’s nearly halfway through the alley when a figure stumbles from the corner and stops right at the far end. The streetlamp behind him casts his whole front in shadow, so all Sam sees is a silhouette of a hunched form that’s swaying like they’re on a ship.

 

_Drug addict? Drunk?_

 

The figure shifts. Sam catches the glint of a knife clutched between two shaking hands and has to rapidly reevaluate his initial assessment.

 

_Armed mugger. Fuck._

 

“I just want you to know,” Sam says loudly, cautiously raising his hands, “That I’m very poor and very sleep-deprived and literally the only thing you can kill me for right now are three highlighters and about 200 pages of notes.” He pauses. Wait. On second thought: “Please don’t steal my notes.”

 

“I’m not—I’m not a mugger,” Not Mugger rasps out, and for all that he looks about to keel over and die, the man actually manages to sound _offended_. “And you should run — go away before — ” He coughs then, and something splatters on the ground. Not Mugger stumbles forward and sideways, nearly tripping over a couple of bulging trash bags before hitting the wall with a dull thump. He slides down with a groan, uncaring of the fact that he’s right between two of the dented, filthy looking dumpsters. His descent downwards leaves a trailing smear. Sam cautiously walks forward, because that looks an awful lot like —

 

That’s when the smell hits him: metallic, tangy, and — in that amount — usually signifies someone who’s not about to be of this earth.

 

Sam breaks into a run. As he nears, he zeroes in on something long and jet-black sticking out from the left thigh. Not Mugger’s hands drop the knife and wrap themselves around it instead.

 

Sam’s eyes widen. “No, stop —!”

 

Not Mugger wrenches the thing out with a sickening squelch.

 

“ _Oh my god!”_ Sam hisses, skidding to his knees at the man’s side, pressing a hand on the man’s gaping wound.  “Are you out of your mind?! Why would you — _shit.”_ He shrugs off his backpack, rips it open and pulls out the first clothing he can find: a bright bird-patterned towel given by his sister as a gag gift  — and apparently _useless_ because it’s soaked within _seconds_ , too thin and small to be a tourniquet around Not Mugger’s thigh.  Swearing, Sam puts it to the side, scrabbles through his backpack again, and this time pulls out a shirt. He shakes it free from its neat folds and swiftly makes a tourniquet. He pushes his bag under the man’s leg, elevates it as high as he can and then he finally looks up from the wound —-

 

“Well, _shit_ ,” Sam says again. Not Mugger’s hunched over, blonde head lolling and dirty, and he’s unconscious, which Sam takes as a blessing because Not Mugger looks — bad, so fucking _bad —_ and he’s wearing what looks like the remnants of hard-plated _whole body armour,_ black and ridged and sleek and absolutely _ravaged_ in places. The expanse of skin exposed through the destroyed clothing is a discolored map of wounds and bruises and burns.  Sam pushes through the familiar coppery tang of blood and practically tastes the smell of burnt flesh. He grimly wonders if some of that armor actually melded with this man’s skin.

 

His eyes flit to the arms, dangling uselessly between his legs.

 

Not Mugger’s hands are encased in a souped-up version of standard handcuffs, jet black metal three inches thick and digging through the skin, tight from the wrist up to nearly the elbow. The skin beneath the handcuffs look red and inflamed. He spares a glance to Not Mugger’s face: pale lips, bloody nose, and a sweaty face twisted in a grimace of pain.

 

Sam reaches out —

 

The wailing sounds of a police siren slices through the air, loud and _angry_ against the distant honking of taxis and the thumping bass from someone’s nearby apartment. Sam freezes, his eyes darting from the injured man in front of him then to the end of the alleyway, from where Not Mugger came from … and where the sounds can be heard coming closer and closer.

 

Sam wants to believe that it’s a coincidence — _god,_ does he want to — but he’s always trusted his gut, and even putting his instinctive distrust aside — it will never be one of his favorite sounds — something about the ones he’s hearing now sound _ominous_.

 

Handcuffed, beat-up dude in an alleyway. Police sirens. One hapless medical student. Right.

 

 _The hell did you do,_ Sam thinks grimly, but he wills himself out of that mindset because it doesn’t — it doesn’t matter what he did. This was — Sam pushes down all the questions and freak outs and demands for a later time. Later. That can be later, when they weren’t prey to what is are probably people cruel enough to inflict wounds like these and are apparently _hiding behind a uniform_.

 

He stands up and looks around, mind racing desperately for some kind of plan. They’ll be here any second, and Sam’s not stupid enough to think he can haul and drag Not Mugger’s heavy ass to his apartment that fast. Not to mention the trail of blood that would leave, because he may have staunched the bleeding from _one_ wound …

 

His eyes catch on the blood-soaked towel crumpled on the ground, the filthy dumpsters and discarded cardboard boxes, and then back to his unconscious companion, bleeding and dirty on the side of the alley.

 

The bones of a plan solidify in his head, reckless and crazy and stupid --

 

He turns his head and spies the black cloak he passed minutes ago, rustling softly like an invitation.

 

 _Fuck it_.

 

Sam sprints to the hanging black cloak and rips it from the washing. He does the same to a black hoodie dangling on another line, sending mental apologies to their owners and swearing he’s going to replace them in the near future. Hopefully. If there’s a near future.

 

_Dammit, Wilson._

 

Sam goes back and swiftly puts the hoodie around Not Mugger, taking care to cover the bright blond hair, the broad shoulders, the ruined chest. He covers the rest with the black cloak, infinitely grateful now for its large size that allows him to wrap the other man as thoroughly as possible. He plucks a nearby large cardboard box from the ground and flips it to its side, snatching the empty bottles of beer that rolled out and placing it next to Not Mugger feet. Then, he steps over his unconscious form and hurries to the dumpster a few steps away. A quick peek reveals a blessedly empty inside, so he curls his hands around the bar handles on its side, braces himself, and then _pulls_ , pulls it closer to Not Mugger until it’s right beside him, until the man can tip over to lean against its side like a drunk who just fell on the side of a street.

 

Because that’s _exactly_ what he’s aiming for.

 

Sam stumbles a few steps back and takes a second to survey his work: a figure slumped against a dumpster, blasted on a few bottles, bundled in thick black clothes now stained with dirt and next to a half-wet cardboard box that doubles as a bed and a roof. The deception wouldn't last on closer inspection, even if the darkness helps cover the clues...

 

But to people who are searching for someone in armor, someone most likely dangerous and alone and _injured,_ maybe the last thing they would look at is a homeless man who staked his place in an alleyway.

 

There’s the distant but unmistakable sound of car tires screeching to a halt, its doors being shoved open and slammed closed.

 

Sam snatches the scarf from the ground, taking care to catch the droplets of blood in one cupped palm. He runs back to where Not Mugger was standing before and briefly notes how the dumpster hides most of Not Mugger from his sight, only the very tips of his bundled feet and the beer bottles in view. He surveys the trail of blood.  The biggest and most obvious droplets landed right where he himself stands now, getting smaller and smaller as it goes forward and to the side, where Not Mugger was hidden. Smaller and smaller, but still -- visible.

 

Not good.

 

Sam holds the towel out and _squeezes,_ letting blood splatter to the ground as he goes a little bit backwards, nearer to the exit of the alleyway, just enough to not be seen from the street. He makes the blood arc and splatter, hiding the neat little trail of blood that leads straight to Not Mugger. When he can't squeeze any more, he quickly bundles up the towel and throws it neatly into another open dumpster a few meters away.

 

Last one.

 

Sam drops to the ground, arranging himself in the universal position of the mugged: fetal position, groaning, and in as much pain as possible. Beyond his own frantic heartbeat he hears it: the heavy thud of boots, shouting, cursing.

 

His groaning has barely started before he hears running feet turn the corner and enter the alleyway.

 

“In here!” Footsteps coming closer. Then: “Oi! Hey you!”

 

Sam’s groans turn into a strangled yell when a dark figure pulls him upright, roughly enough that he stumbles a bit before finding his balance. The person with the hands twisted on his shirt is huge, possessing a scraggly face littered with scars and a neck as thick as Sam’s thighs, eyes hard and intent. Scraggly Face’s arms are covered in tattooed scales from the elbow up to the wrist, the black and violet lines made ghoulish and grotesque by the veins bulging on his arms as he practically lifts Sam against the wall.

 

“You!” Scraggly Face barks, looming over and pressing him against the wall. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

 

This close, he can smell the man’s sour breath and see the jagged details of the scar in his left eyebrow. The veins and muscles of his neck are stark against the dark of his shirt and the chain dangling from his neck, straining like he wants to punch him. Sam starts to struggle wildly.

“Get off! Let go of me!”

 

A woman appears, reedy and whiplike, with a pointy face set into a blank expression. She stops, veers a little past Scraggly Face and Sam — a little too near where Not Mugger is, _fuck —_ and bends to pick something up from the ground.

 

It’s the metal rod.

 

She whips around and stalks back to them, frowning. “I could have sworn I hit the — ”

 

“My god! Put the boy down!” A new voice interrupts her, and another man comes running, stocky and short.

He reaches out a hand and squeezes Scraggly Face’s shoulder. With a derisive grunt, Scraggly Face releases his hold and steps back, dropping Sam to the ground.

 

“I’m so sorry about my colleague,” Stocky Guy apologizes profusely. He had an unremarkable face, forgettable but earnest. Reedy Girl steps up behind him, the rod seemingly vanishing from her hands.

 

“We’re currently in a bit of a tight spot, see. Doesn’t help tempers,” Stocky Guy continues. He helps Sam straighten his shirt. His gaze flickers to the blood on Sam’s front, and something flashes in his eyes before it’s covered once again by genial apology. “Name’s Stanley, FBI,” he says, showing his ID. “We got a convict on the loose. Armed and dangerous,.” He steps closer, radiating concern. “And I think you may be able to help. Can you tell us what happened to you?”

 

All three of them are wearing standard bulletproof vests, their black cargo pants tucked neatly into combat boots. All three of them also had guns, glinting in the moonlight, although Stocky Guy’s was tucked neatly in his holster.

 

Sam doesn’t trust them one bit.

 

“No, no, it’s okay,,” Sam says, brushing dirt from his shoulder. He tells himself the shaking of his hands is an excellent bit of acting. “I don’t know exactly, but I was walking home from work — ”

 

“At this hour? It’s almost ten,” Reedy Girl interrupts, suspicion clouding her features. “Where is that?”

 

“The local hospital. I’m a doctor. Just got off my shift,” Sam says, gesturing emphatically to his scrub shirt and the ID around his chest, carefully turned so that they don’t see his name. He pointedly ignores the frankly offensive look of disbelief on Reedy Girl’s face. He _is_ a doctor, goddammit. Technically. In the near future. If he doesn’t die. The afterlife probably doesn't have Step 3. “And I don't - I don’t know what happened exactly. One minute I was upright and the next second someone rammed the shit out of me from the side and took my my bag and jacket. At _knife point_. I tried to stop him but --- ” He raises his hands helplessly and lets frustrated anger seep into his tone, “He even stole my kit.”

 

“What was in your the kit?” Scraggly Face asks.

 

Sam feels the sweat drip down the back of his neck. “It was a first aid kit. Fully stocked and professional grade. Opioid analgesics and Dermabond and bandages— ” he struggles to continue looking mournful even as there was a subtle shift in the air, the other three tensing. “It was worth a lot more than what’s in my wallet, that’s for sure.”

 

“What’d he look like? Face? Clothes? ” Stocky Guy asks, leaning forward.

 

“I didn’t see his face clearly, but -- male, definitely, and -- sorry, everything was a blur. He pushed me straight to the ground and put a knife to my neck,” Sam says, shaking his head and rubbing the aforementioned spot, like it was hurting. _Not too much, Wilson. Not too much_. “Caught a glimpse of him running away. Blonde? Blonde and broad. Built like a Mack truck.”

 

“Where’d he go? Did you see?” Reedy Girl says abruptly. Sam sends her a furtive look and nearly blanches at the expression on her face. She looks _hungry_.

 

“I — he went straight down and left — but are you sure —”

 

“There’s no time for this,” Scraggly Guy interrupts, stepping back. He looks like he’s itching for blood. “He couldn’t have gotten far. Let’s go!” And then he’s running, straight to the other side of the alley, not sparing a glance to the homeless man on the side.

 

“I’m afraid we have to leave,” Stocky Guy tells him as Reedy Girl rushes past. He moves to join the other two but then stops halfway and turns back to Sam. “Thank you for the tip,” he says haltingly, the words awkward and foreign on his lips, like he suddenly remembered that real people actually practice the courtesy of thanking someone who helped before disappearing from view. “It was — it was what was needed. He’s dangerous. Very dangerous,” he continues, “You’re lucky, young man. You see him again anywhere, you call the police, okay?”

 

“Uh, yeah, I’ll do that,” Sam says quickly. “Good luck with—yeah, good luck with the …thing,” he finishes lamely, trailing off because Stocky Guy didn’t even let him finish. He’s already disappearing around the corner.

 

For a few more painful minutes, Sam stays where he is, still and straining to hear the thud of heavy boots returning or the cock of a gun. When he’s pretty sure they won’t be coming back, Sam drops the act and runs towards the dumpster. He kicks the cardboard out of the way, reaches for the hoodie, and pulls it down.

 

He’s greeted by Not Mugger, awake, alert, and sporting what’s possibly the most _unimpressed_ expression in the history of the universe.

 

“Good luck with the thing?” Not Mugger echoes as Sam drops down in front of him, and even laced with pain the judgement is unmistakable. “I mean, really?”

 

“I was very stressed,” Sam retorts with dignity. “Here,” he fishes out pills from his scrub pocket and offers it to him.  “For the pain.” When Not Mugger ignores them, his eyes still trained on Sam, Sam can’t help but give him a judgmental look in return. “Dude, if I were to pick a disguise for tricking god-knows-what-you-people-are into their untimely deaths, it would not be baby blue scrubs with airplane patterns.”

 

Not Mugger blinks, something flashing on his face too quick to see, but he eventually gives a tiny nod and Sam doesn’t lose a limb when he tips the pills into his mouth or when Not Mugger dry swallows them like a champ, so he calls that a win.

 

Then: “I thought doctors are suppose to thrive under pressure.”

 

For _serious_ . “Okay, first off,” Sam snarks, holding a finger up, “I am technically still a medical student — graduating and dying, thank you, and for another: buddy, considering the fact that I’ve had like twelve internal breakdowns in the past five minutes I was fucking _thriving_.”

 

A beat.

 

Not Mugger’s indecipherable face melts into a thoughtful look, gazing at Sam from head to toe ...

 

….. and then the corner of his lips —

 

— twitches.

 

“Okay, maybe you were,” Not Mugger agrees. His eyes are tired, but there’s a spark that says he may or may not be teasing.

 

Sam flushes.

 

“I was and you know it,” Sam huffs, careful not to let on how thrown he is at the sudden change. He reaches for Not Mugger’s leg, immediately sobering when he sees it again. It was easy, in that brief moment of banter, to forget just how wounded the other man is, but the bloody reminder of it stares at him straight in the face when he removes the cloak. And what’s more, he feels his adrenaline waning, leaving him aching and slightly irritable, so when Not Mugger actually _moves_ to get away — honestly, _where_ is the self-preservation instinct — Sam pokes him firmly on the forehead, possibly the only part of his face that's retained his normal skin color. “Do not even!” he barks, ignoring Not Mugger’s indignant yelp.

 

“What was that for???”

“ _Why_ are you moving??”

 

Not Mugger sends him an incredulous look. “You have terrible bedside manners!”

 

“You have terrible self-preservation instincts,” Sam counters, and he rummages around his bag for the supplies he managed to mooch off the hospital. You never know when the ER will run out. “Pulling out that stick, really? I mean, _seriously_.”

 

“It was an arrow.”

 

Sam twitches. “Oh, an _arrow_ — ”

 

“I had to — ”

 

“Nope, nuh-huh, not hearing it. I don’t care if you’re from MI6 or FBI or CIA or the freaking Kingsmen,” Sam barrels on, pulling out all the material he needs from his bag. “Even Hollywood knows you don’t pull out stuff you get stabbed with! Hollywood science knows this!” He snatches a another quick look at Not Mugger’s leg, where the bandage is already completely soaked and dying for a replacement. “Now keep quiet and let me look at your leg fast and then I’ll check on your -- god, _your whole body_ ? Don’t they teach you guys about basic wound care? Infections? Common sense? I will gladly tell you if you don’t! I will talk your _ear_...”

 

Sam trails off as he unwraps the bandage on Steve’s leg.

 

The wound was … not there anymore. Or at least, obviously not as it was before. It still looks bad, stark against the middle of Steve’s ruined clothes, but …it sure as hell is neater and smaller than he remembers.

 

“Huh,” Sam says eloquently.

 

Well.

 

He stares, and he stares, and he tries to think of what to say. He feels Not Mugger shift, then he hears: “I needed to pull it out because it was poisoned.”

 

“Poisoned,” Sam echoes blankly, still staring at the wound.

 

“It prevented me from healing.”

 

“Healing,” Sam repeats, a little faint, not caring that he sounds like an idiot for the repetition. _This isn’t healing_ , Sam thinks, as he watches what looks like dirt and caked blood being slowly evicted from the wound, the other man’s  body painstakingly heal itself millimeter by millimeter. _This is outright regeneration_.  

 

“Yeah, healing. So it’s going to work on that first, because it’s the worst, and then the rest will just… follow.”

 

He swallows. “... I take it no hospitals?”

 

A pregnant pause. And then: “No hospitals. No police too. Could be compromised. Just -- let me heal.”

 

Sam finally looks up to see Not Mugger watching him, and he asks, “Are you suppose to be telling me these things?”

 

“No,” Not Mugger admits. A strange expression flits across his face, but he doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, Not Mugger cocks his head. “Why, you gonna tell?”

 

The man looks unconcerned, his tone almost teasing, but Sam knows better. He has a hand on Not Mugger’s thigh, can sense the coiled tension in his muscles. Not Mugger is waiting for a reaction, a reply, which is fucking _hilarious_ because hell  —

 

“ _No_ ,” Sam says, with as much sincerity as possible.

 

— will he ever breathe a word of this to anybody. Best case scenario is he gets either laughed out of the door because _no one_ believes him. Worst case scenario is that he _dies_ from whatever the hell this is because Someone Important believes him —because this is Washington and who the hell knows what happens in Washington. Sam Wilson did not work his ass off for years only to get shanked like cannon fodder on the first five minutes of a movie mere _weeks_ away from getting a freaking license, and with the only cause of his premature death being an ill-advised attempt to tell the world about something that is obviously _way_ over his head.

 

He tells this so to Not Mugger, who only cocks his head and says, “But you helped me. You got involved in the business, technically.”

 

…

 

Sam blinks, aghast. “I said I’m a pragmatist, not an _asshole_ , oh my god.”

 

…

 

“They could’ve killed you. That was pretty non-pragmatically stupid.”

 

“It’s only stupid if it doesn’t work,” Sam tells him primly, before he pointedly goes back to cleaning the wound. He can practically taste the confusion in the air, but honestly, in his head it _did_ made perfect sense, like: what will be gained by telling someone? Who will he even tell? Who will he trust? _How_ will he tell it? _Where_ will he start? Too many uncertainties, too big for Sam to comprehend what kind of consequence telling someone would bring. But on the other hand: _here_ was a man who was punched and kicked and tortured, and _there_ were the people who did the punching and kicking and the torturing, and so, yes, he can’t do anything about all those other things but bleeding he can staunch, wounds he can treat, distraction he can provide, and standing by and doing nothing when doing _something_ will certainly affect the outcome, well —

 

A laugh, low and a little bit incredulous, disrupts Sam’s thoughts. And then —

 

“My name’s Steve. Steve Rogers.”

 

Sam whips his head up. There’s a small grin on Not Mugger’s face. He doesn’t know what the hell his own looks like, but whatever it is it makes Not Mugger actually laugh, short and abrupt, and Sam is struck by how much it makes him look so much younger. He thinks they may even be around the same age.

 

“Steve,” Sam repeats, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Your name is Steve? Hi, hello,” He represses the slightly hysterical thought that it’s such a _suburban_ name for someone dressed like he’s going to stealth-invade a small country and says instead, “Sam Wilson.”

 

Steve tilts his head in greeting. “I’d shake your hand but,” he gestures ruefully at his own, “I got mine all tied up.”

 

Sam blinks. “Shit, sorry, I almost had — here,” he says, fishing out the thin chain necklace he barely managed to swipe from Scraggly Face during their initial struggle. He lets it dangle from his hand, the light catching on the small black metal key hanging from end. “Will this work?”

 

Steve stares, stunned, before delight spreads on his face. “Damn right it will. You’re _terrible_ ,” he says, grinning like it’s a compliment and lifting his hands like an offering. With Sam’s help, they managed to find the keyhole and slide the key in place. There’s a click, a hiss of air, metal sliding back, and when the manacles drop to the ground they make a loud thud, betraying its heavy weight. Steve gingerly massages the blood back into his arms. “Thank you,” he says, shooting Sam a grateful look. “Not just for this, but what you did back there -- you didn’t have to, and I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

 

Sam makes a sound that hopefully conveys how ridiculous he thinks that is. The idea of what would have happened if he took a detour to grab a bite first, if he had been ten seconds later, if he had chosen to run away instead of forward -- he shied away from that thought, uncomfortable. “Ehhh,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. “Those people that were chasing you? Bad vibes, man. Makes me want to take a bath, go to church, maybe call my mom -- ”

 

Steve stiffens. “Did they hurt you?”

 

“No,” Sam rushes, because Steve looks like he wants to leap up and go after said people, even if he has to hop to do it, and just: no. “Roughed me up a little -- which, _ha_ , got the keys -- but they were more interested in chasing you.”  He moves from the stab wound -- he’s not even going to try pitting his paltry first aid with whatever the hell is working there -- and starts working on Steve’s other injuries, the ones not life-threatening enough to be healing first. “What did you do anyway? Destroy their drug cartel? Stole their nukes? Stopped a planned invasion or something equally horrible?”

 

Steve smiles. It was all teeth. “Or something,” he says, which Sam will wisely interpret as something that somehow involves all three and therefore should not be touched with a ten-foot pole.

 

“And you don’t have to do that, you know,” Steve continues. “I heal.”

 

“Yes, you absolutely do heal,” Sam agrees, ignoring him and steadily working on an ugly burn winding around Steve’s biceps. It’s one of the worst ones on Steve’s person. At least, the ones he can _see_ . “But I know you do so _slowly_ ,” he emphasizes, “I’m guessing you’re healing mojo’s limited, and because of that it prioritizes the really serious ones first? Quality over quantity?”

 

A pause. “Yeah, you could say that,” Steve concedes, a little startled. ”How —”

 

“That one looks better,” Sam nods to the arrow wound. “But everywhere else you still look like various levels of shit.”

 

“Thanks,” Steve says dryly.

 

“No problem,” Sam says graciously, smirking at Steve’s look. “But that means it would be better to help it along so your body’s gonna work less and have more to spare — ”

 

“It’s okay to leave them, though. They won’t get worse, and I’m not prone to infections,” Steve says. “And besides, my ride’s almost — ”

 

A bright glare of flight flares at Steve’s end of the alleyway. A dark shape rolls into view, smooth and quiet.

 

Sam freezes.

 

“--- here,” Steve finishes. “Calm down,” His bloodied hand curls gently around Sam’s. “It’s okay. They’re with me.”

 

“.... Your backup has terrible timing,” Sam says flatly, unclenching his hands, relaxing slightly. He eyes the car as it purrs into a stop, its black exterior blending with the night. “They couldn’t come _before_ you got the stuffing beat out of you?”

 

“They couldn’t. I was held in -- somewhere off the grid,” Steve replies. For a split second, something pensive and troubled crosses his face, but before Sam can even react to it, the other man swings him an optimistic look. “Worst one’s healed enough,” he says, carefully flexing his wounded leg, like that would negate everything else Sam is just itching to mend. “Think it’s good for a little walking now.”

 

“Are they seriously going to make you work again,” Sam says, frowning. “Can’t they wait at least until you’ve healed up a little more? There’s a monstrosity right — see this one here? This one?” He jabs the air above a nasty laceration spanning the left side of Steve’s torso. “Bad. It’s _not_ a good look.”

 

“I don’t know,” Steve admits, “but it’s no good staying here, and I sure as hell won’t go to your place. Don’t worry, doc,” he adds, amused when he sees Sam’s frown, “It’s done with my leg. Little rest somewhere better equipped than here and I’ll be good as new.”

 

Sam doesn’t reply for a while, hands deft and sure as he works.

 

“Sam.”

 

“Good as new?” Sam repeats, like extracting a promise.

 

“Good enough to take on the apocalypse,” Steve says, which is not what Sam said but he has a feeling that’s the best he’s gonna get.

 

And yeah, okay, Sam inwardly admits he can see how that’s possible. Steve Rogers still looks like he went five rounds against the hooves of a rampaging horse, but no matter how slow his superheating’s going he now looks better than he did a precious few minutes ago. And no doubt wherever he’s going would be better equipped to deal with all this. So despite the fact that he _knows_ there’s still about a hundred injuries left, that it’s practically _painful_ for him to leave him like this —

 

“Your face is an apocalypse,” Sam finally says gruffly, but he’s moving to help, gingerly putting the other man’s arm around his shoulders.

 

Steve Rogers just grins.

 

He half-drags, half-carries Steve to the car, one arm carefully wrapped around his waist, the other anchoring Steve's arm that’s slung across his neck. They huff and puff their way nearer, slow and shuffling, with Sam firmly stopping when Steve so much as hitches his breath in pain, and then ignoring the latter’s complaints about stopping. When they’re finally less than three feet away, there’s a quiet whir from the car and the back door smoothly slides upward, revealing empty seats covered in black leather.

 

“Creepy,” Sam mutters. “Also cliche. So very cliche.”

 

Steve snorts in reply, and between the two of them they manage to get him inside. Sam glances furtively at the driver’s seat, curious to see what kind of person would play chauffeur, but there's a divider, also black, rolled all the way up.

 

“Disappointed?” Steve asks, a knowing smile in his face.

 

“No,” Sam lies, and when Steve’s smile threatens to turn into a smirk he barrels on, “Ugh, just -- here," and he puts the rest of his supplies on the seat next to Steve. “Use it during the drive. I wasn’t kidding about my first aid kit back there. There should be enough to clean and cover whatever’s left of your wounds -- do you have topical antibiotics? I only have like three tubes left but if your healing factor’s this slow --”

 

“You bandaged the worst. It’s totally fine,” Steve insists. He tries to push the stash back to Sam. Which Sam, for his part, flatly refuses. “Sam, burn ointment? Seriously, I do _not_ have -- ”

 

“Don’t listen to him!” Sam says, knocking on the divider. “He smells like a college student’s first attempt at cooking. It’s probably on his _back_.”

 

Steve shoots him a look. “There is _not._ ”

 

“Liar.”

 

The other man’s reply is cut off by the rev of the car’s engine, and Sam doesn’t know how an automobile can give off both amusement and impatience at the same time but this one somehow _does_.

 

“Your car is gonna run me over in the next two seconds so _just take it!_ ” Sam slaps Steve’s hands away from the bag and then backs up a few steps, hands raised. “Nope, do not!”

 

“I — fine, okay!” Steve gives Sam an exasperated look. “But are you sure — ”

 

“ _Yes_! Why would I — ”

 

“Thank you,” Steve interrupts, somehow conveying genuine sincerity despite being covered in blood.  “Really.”

 

“It’s nothing — stop it with the eyes! You can thank me by saving the world or whatever it is you do!” Sam shakes his head, puts his hands on his hips, and glares. “Just — be careful, okay?”

 

Steve blinks, and a beat after he says, “Will do.” A small genuine smile is curling on his face. “See you around, Sam.”

 

Sam waits until the car’s gone before he turns to start the walk home. Not even a few steps in and his foot accidentally kicks something small and metal. It bangs on the corner of the nearest dumpster before dropping back to the ground.

 

Sam hurries over and picks it up. It’s Steve’s forgotten knife, the one he’d had clutched between his manacled hands. The knife’s design is a startling contrast to his new friend’s sleek and deadly image: an old, battered, Swiss Army Knife, with the black handle scratched up and the blade obviously dulled. In the face of — well, _everything_ Steve seems to be, the little weapon seems laughably useless. So: sentiment, most likely. Sam hesitates, indecision warring inside him for a single, furious beat —

 

He pockets it and goes home.

 

 

 

**TWO.**

 

 

 

To anyone else who had something as _what-the-fuck_ as that happen to them, the expected events after would go something like this: get into a small existential crisis about the ephemeral nature of life, forego basic human needs like taking a bath or eating or sleeping in favor of extreme hyperventilation for the next several days (or months or years), and maybe call everyone they had ever known and loved to declare their never-ending love/hate/boners because life is short and anytime they can die.

 

But Sam’s a little bit different. He _did_ almost cry at the sight of his apartment, but his family’s dead asleep at this time of night and he’s loathe to text them just for a potential mental breakdown so he mostly sent an extremely enthusiastic text to Riley, who _will_ raise hell if he goes missing. Also, years of medical school had driven the importance of eating and bathing and sleeping when one can deep into his _soul_ so there’s no fucking way he skipped any of that. He’d actually meant to do some super fast googling about strange little world events — so help him, he can’t help but be _curious_ , okay—- but he severely underestimated the toll an almost 48-hour shift takes. The googlefu-ing he’d planned or the two-minute freakout he’d expected didn’t come. At all. He was — he was out like a light the minute he hit the bed, is the thing — and when he woke up he _did_ hyperventilate, but it wasn’t because of nightmares or someone having crept into his apartment to kill him. It was because he woke up late and studied _fuck all_ for Stephen Strange’s rounds, which was probably worse than being killed.

 

(…His priorities. He _knows_.)

 

And after the rounds he barely survived with the skin of his teeth (“Passable,” Dr. Strange had said after his endorsement, which he’ll take as a win because he compared Higgins' work to a drunken lemming's), when he finally had time to breathe, time went on as if _nothing had happened_ , like if it weren’t for his blood-spattered scrubs he would have chalked it up to a very vivid dream, and when the hours stretched to become a busy day filled with patient after patient after patient, the incident finally fell out of Sam’s priorities altogether. It’s hard to dwell on the fact that _he_ escaped almost-certain death when there are stroke patients coming through the door an hour post-ictus, DKA cases who stopped insulin medications because they can’t afford it, and car crash victims splayed open on the table, dripping blood on the floor.

 

As for paranoia? Well. Adrenaline’s better off to more fruitful pursuits. After two days of being perfectly alive, thank you, Sam figures it’s either they’re really really bad at their jobs or Steve kicked all their collective asses in the aftermath and he’s in the clear. Sam’s willing to go with the latter.

 

And as for _Steve…_ well. If pushed to explain, Sam’s never gonna be able to do it more articulately than saying _my gut said so_. He’s always trusted his instincts, and if they say the bloody armor-wearing manacled prisoner is a hell of a lot more trustworthy than the police chasing him, then by god he’s going to run with it.

 

So, yeah, to Sam’s gut instincts, there were people like Steve, who he trusted and — god forbid, even _liked —_  within like five seconds of talking to his injured ass, and then …

 

.... and then there were people like Justin Hammer.

 

“Hammer,” Sam says, zeroing in on the man’s stupid gelled hair. His colleague is in front of the doors of the Transition Ward, where ER patients are tossed when they’re too stable to be in the Acute Care Unit but they can’t go into the actual wards because there’s no room. Even with his back to Sam it’s obvious Hammer's doing some posturing — it makes him look like a preening peacock but uglier, Sam thinks sourly — and the implications of that did nothing to improve Sam’s opinion that Hammer should’ve been dropkicked into the ocean on the first day of class.

 

“Hammer. _Hammer!_ ”

 

“What do you _want_ , Wilson?” Justin Hammer replies, turning around to face him with a fake smile, and lo and behold: there’s a woman behind him, clutching a cakebox and wearing a strained polite expression that changes into barely concealed incredulity when she meets Sam’s eyes. Her gaze darts to Hammer’s hand on her shoulder and back to Sam.

 

Her grip on the cakebox shifts, going tighter, like all she wants is to bash it onto someone’s slick head.

 

The thought that Hammer’s not only skivving off his duties but skivving off to inflict his obviously unwanted presence to unsuspecting people nice enough to _not punch him in the face_ is enough to push Sam’s already foul mood to the pits of hell.

 

Sam smiles back, all teeth. “Where the hell have you been?”

 

Hammer shifts to fully face him, drawing himself up, somehow looking down his nose even though they’re the same height. “I needed to use the bathroom,” he says haughtily. “Not that it’s any of your business — ”

 

Sam had been on his way back from the fastest bathroom break of his life when he spotted Hammer. Justin Hammer was so not in the fucking bathroom.

 

“For _five hours_ ?” Sam says, clutching his chest, eyes wide. “Dude, that’s _totally_ our business as part of your team.” He steps closer, eyebrows wiggling. “Is it diarrhea?”

 

Hammer stiffens. “I never _said_ \-- ”

 

“It’s today’s cafeteria menu, isn’t it? Burrito and salami? Salad and beans?” Sam plows on, nodding his head seriously. “What bathroom did you use? It should be barred for the next ten years.”

 

Hammer flushes, his lips curling into a snarl. “It wasn’t diarrhea! I was — ”

 

“Come on, there’s no need to be shy!” Sam swings an arm around Hammer’s neck, effectively cutting him off, and cheerfully continues, “We’re friends, _obviously_ , and the lady here should know about your bowel movements if you wanna woo her seriously. Honesty is key.” He leans in close, firmly towing Hammer away from the girl, and whispers as loud as he can, “We could cover for you if you wanna go home and use your own throne. We have lots of practice covering for you. We’ll be _totally fine_.”

 

There’s a hastily choked sound behind them. Hammer’s face, if possible, flushes even further, and he none too gently pushes Sam away. “I can walk to the ER on my own, thank you!” he snaps.

 

“Really? Because the way you’ve been conveniently missing since we got here says differently,” Sam says flatly. “Me and Riley and Maria? Haven’t sat down, haven’t had a break, haven’t had breakfast. Or even a goddamn snack.” He pointedly eyes the stupid Starbucks paperbag hanging on Hammer’s arm before it’s quickly shifted out of sight. “You don’t seem to have the same problem.”

 

“It’s not my fault you people don’t know how to manage your time.” Hammer says ‘you people’ like he wasn’t also part of their team. Which: no.

 

Sam makes eye contact with the girl over Hammer’s shoulder and signals her to go. She wastes no time, giving him a grateful look before she darts away. Hammer makes a move as if to turn around, but Sam’s hand on his arm stops him, and something ugly flashes across Hammer's face.

 

“What the hell, Wilson, I told you: it’s not my fucking fault if — ”

 

“Yes, it is. Decking went around eight times the whole time you were gone,” Sam snaps, letting his full irritation out now that they're relatively alone.  He crosses his arms, glaring. “That’s eight patients for each of us and counting. How many do you have, Hammer?”

 

Hammer opens his mouth to snarl in reply, but then stops, closing it with gritted teeth. He disappeared right after they called attendance in the morning and everyone knows it. His patients can be counted on no hands.

 

“I was asked to re-line a patient here in the Transition Ward. Patient Rushman,” Hammer says tightly. He gestures to his coat pocket, where a bundle of cannulas are tucked in next to his pens. “I can go after —”

 

Sam neatly plucks the cannulas out of his pocket. “I will _gladly_ re-line this poor patient for you, Hammer. _You,_ I think, should go back to your post.”

 

The call of an ambulance jars them out of their stare-off.

 

“Oh, look!” Sam says, faux-bright. “You better go back. I think that’s your _first_ patient.”

 

Hammer emits a sound of rage before he strides past Sam, disappearing into the halls of the ER.

 

Sam keeps his eyes on Hammer just in case he tries to slip away again —

 

“God, that guy had one of the _worst_ come-ons I have ever heard.”

 

Sam starts. The voice was high and lilting, and it was coming from the other side of the Transition Ward’s double doors, the right half of which is partially ajar. He peeks through the slit, frowning when all he sees is an empty room with unoccupied stretchers.

 

“I feel like I need to take a bath. Go to church. Maybe get a lobotomy.”

 

Sam cautiously pushes the door fully open and steps through. “Patient Rushman? I’m so sorry you had to hear that. Hamme — my, uh, colleague said he needed to — ”

 

“ _Please_. I wouldn’t have let that creep near me with a ten-foot pole.”

 

Inside and to his left, there’s another stretcher pushed up against the left half of the double doors, a position no one looking through the doors would have seen unless they actually step inside.  There’s a red-headed woman sitting on the stretcher, right leg dangling and the left neatly folded and tucked underneath. She’s wearing leggings and a comfortable-looking hoodie. A glint of metal catches Sam’s attention. There’s a coin she’s rolling along her knuckles, its movements fluid and smooth. He manages to catch a glimpse of a ballerina on one side, a small symbol on the other, and the whole thing tugs lightly on his memory —

 

Her right hand shifts into a fist, trapping the coin inside. She raises it to point a finger at him, lifts a brow, and declares: “ _You,_ on the other hand, are perfectly fine. What’s your name, doc?”

 

“Uh — I am?” Sam asks, whose eyes flitted from the coin to the face and therefore was momentarily derailed by red, red lips and the greenest eyes he’s every seen. It takes much effort to manhandle it back into a semblance of professionalism.

 

_Get it together, Wilson!_

 

He clears his throat. “I mean — Hello. I’m Sam Wilson, a medical student. You needed a change in line, yeah?”

 

In answer, the woman lifts her left hand, which was hidden from view until now. She turns it until Sam can see the back of her hand.

 

“Well, shit,” Sam says, eyeing the bent cannula half out of her skin. What looks like half a roll of tape had been used to initially secure it, but right now the whole of it was peeling off and stained red, dried blood caked on the edges, the skin on the back of her arm swollen. He follows the line — the fluid was also blood-tinged — up to the IV bag and sees that the drip’s blocked.

 

“Right, right, this will just be fast,” he says, waving the replacement cannula in the air. He spreads out the materials he needs on the bed, his brain automatically ticking off a mental checklist: cotton, tourniquet, alcohol, cannula, tape... and all the while he speaks.

 

“Sorry about Hammer. Usually I’d say he’s not that bad, but he is. He’s a dick. A total dick."

 

Rushman snorts. “Well, at least you’re not _excusing_ it. I had half a mind to hop out of this table and strangle him with my IV. It’s out, it’s bloody, and at least I’d get a use out of it.” She frowns. “How in the world did he pass medical school?”

 

“Nepotism,” Sam says dryly. “And a whole lot of money.”

 

“That man is going to treat _people.”_

 

“Oh, dude, no,” Sam shakes his head. The sheer thought is enough to make him inwardly recoil in horror. “He’s been stating his desire to go the way of pharmaceutical companies for _years_. Trust me: none of us are gonna stop him.”

 

Rushman looks visibly relieved. “Oh, thank god.”

 

Sam finishes laying out the materials and gives a tiny clap. "Right! Enough about Hammer.” He raises his eyebrows. “You wanna keep thinking about his face while I line you?"

 

"Definitely not."

 

“Thought so,” Sam grins, “but here's a fun fact: best distraction from physical pain is painfully awkward conversation.” He starts to line. “So here’s one for a starter: I see no broken bones or gunshot wounds, and you were cognisant enough to recognise douchebaggery, so what are you here for, Ms. Rushman?”

 

At that, Rushman shrugs. “Moved here from Russia and wanted to prove myself. I trained too hard, had an accident, and now I _may_ have a concussion. I’m still waiting for the final word from my doctor. He opened a practice here. People said I should get ready for my hair to go gray from the wait when I told them where he works,” A wry expression crossing her face. “Never thought it would mean literally."

 

Sam winces in sympathy. The upside of Sam’s chosen hospital is its solid and excellent training program, government funding to the tune of millions of dollars a month, and the fact that it attracts what seems like the whole spectrum of every disease known to man, ever, because it’s a tertiary teaching hospital that caters to people from the mid-to-low-(and-lower-and-lowest)-income brackets, where health-seeking behavior usually manifests when the disease is so symptomatic it becomes hard to ignore in favor of other necessities, like earning a living or getting food on the table or going to school. The downside is that the hospital is regularly overwhelmed by the sheer number of patients who come into her doors, almost always too large for her staff and her facilities and her funds. The spaces were cramped, the callrooms were practically a health hazard, and the waiting list for imaging studies can be so long people have _died_ waiting for their schedule, the cause of death forever unknown.

 

“So an athlete,” Sam says, instead of dwelling on that frankly depressing picture. “What sport?”

 

“Ballet,” Rushman says, and a defiant note enters her voice, as if daring him to say otherwise.

 

“A concussion at ballet, though? I mean — ” Sam looks up to find her sitting straighter, looking at him in challenge, and she looks so ready to defend it that he has to grin. “Dude, no. I was just thinking that usually it’s the feet that get injured with you ballerinas. Pointe shoes are brutal. I am the _last_ person to argue with you.”

 

Rushman cocks her a head, and Sam answers her unasked question. “My sister. Did ballet and actually went professional. She’s with the New York City Ballet, was even nominated for the Prix Benois and everything,” He can’t help the note of pride in his voice then, especially when Rushman’s eyes widen. “I had a terrible time as a kid. Childhood fights? A _nightmare_ .” That earns him a snort, and Sam grins. “No, seriously, my skinny ass versus years of ballet? No chance. You people are so _slippery_.”

 

“So, what, you took up martial arts to compensate?” Rushman asks, glancing pointedly down at his shirt. It’s one of his oldest jerseys, the letters and designs so worn and faded that to a casual glance it looks just like a plain dry-fit black shirt. He wears it frequently on long hours in the ER since it’s one of his most comfortable shirts, and until now nobody has noticed.

 

“Not at first,” Sam admits. “Took up gymnastics before taekwondo came into my life and swallowed me whole.” He smiles at the memory of being a student-athlete. The balancing act was frankly a nightmare, but he wouldn’t exchange that part of his life for anything else. “You’d think it’s a weird switch but my kicks were awesome. The stretching exercises were peanuts after all the splits I had to do. There was one time — ” He stops, a sheepish smile gracing his features. “Too much awkward conversation, huh?”

 

Rushman grins, a twinkle in her eyes, and she makes a grand ‘go on’ gesture with her free hand. “Not at all.”

 

“Was that sarcasm?"

 

“Hardly,” Rushman says. She finally lets out a small laugh. “I got the concussion during a partner dance,” she explains. “My old partner was MIA so they got a replacement. He let go at the wrong time and threw me straight at a pile of props. I hit my head pretty hard on a fake box of treasure and got buried in swords."

 

“Ouch,” Sam says sympathetically. He frowns. “Your new partner sucks. What happened to your old one?”

 

A smirk graces Rushman's features. “He went into an ill-advised solo practice session and got _himself_ injured.” At Sam’s look, she shakes her head. “He’s fine. It’s not bad. He’ll be back in no time.”

 

“For your sake I hope he does,” Sam remarks, putting the last of the tape in place. He lets the drip run, pleased to see that the line’s running smoothly again. “Done. See? Now — ”

 

“Knock, knock! Coming through!” A new voice announces from outside, and a beat later a patient on a wheelchair comes rolling, pushed by one of Sam’s fellow medical students. David Kirkland was a lanky, smiling brunette with orthopedic aspirations and a love for the outdoors, easily seen in the deep tan that somehow manages to stay on his skin despite seemingly perpetual hours in the hospital.

 

“Hey, David,” Sam greets. He gives a warm smile to the new patient as well, an old woman with a cloud of white hair and a ready smile despite the cast on her wrist and right leg.

 

“Sammy!” David crows in delight. They stop beside one of the stretchers. David’s jovial attitude is a complete contrast to the way he’s patiently helping the old woman transfer to the bed. David, for his part, also spots Natalie Rushman and gives her a jaunty wave, one that’s way too enthusiastic, if Rushman’s amused face is any indication.

 

“You are weirdly chipper for someone in the neurosurgery rotation,” Sam remarks. He notices David’s clothes, which suspiciously looks like the ones he had the day before. “Oh my god, are you post? Did you sleep?? ”

 

“I am and absolutely not,” David says brightly. “This is pure adrenaline and the sweet, mania of a caffeine overdose, my friend.” He keeps talking as he helps the patient up from the wheelchair. “But also! There’s a bright side to all this, and I’ve been looking at it since yesterday. For example!” He grabs the IV drip on one hand and starts ticking off fingers on the other. “One: No mortalities during my tour of duty, which is frankly impressive because we are _full house_ , dude. Two: I got 20 purple microtainer from the peds people and another 10 from Medicine. Amazing. You know that shit’s gonna be gone by tonight. And, finally, number three,” He pauses from hanging the drip on the IV stand and waggles his eyebrows at Sam. “Guess what Hammer got as his first patient?”

 

David was once Hammer’s lab partner in Pathology and Microbiology, where the lion’s share of the work goes to the son of a high school football coach and the lion’s share of the credit goes to the son of one of the Board Of Directors. To say the two did not get along was a severe, _severe_ understatement.

 

“Was it the ambulance we heard awhile ago?”

 

David nods, smirking. _Guess further,_ his expression says.

 

“Tony Stark,” Sam guesses, half-joking. It gets a snort from Rushman, and with good reason: the thought of anyone with a net worth big enough for Forbes magazine coming to their underfunded government hospital for treatment is laughably insane. Tony Stark not only tops the Forbes’ list, his net worth is more than the GDP of several countries. Combined.

 

David apparently agrees. “Oh, hell no. What are we? Cedar-Sinai?” He shakes his head, laughing. “Wouldn’t mind a bit of donation, though. Did you hear he shut down his weapons division? Must have seen some fucked up shit in the desert.”

 

“I did,” Sam says, because the Stark drama had been the background noise everywhere there’s a news channel. Coverage stretched from the days leading up to the ill-fated launching of the Jericho Missile in Afghanistan to the ambush, kidnapping, and recovery of Stark Industries’ CEO. The last time he’d tuned in was a few days ago, during the press conference where a livestream of a cranky-looking Tony Stark in a tasteful suit and lying on a hospital bed declared an end to one of his companies most lucrative projects. Even onscreen, Sam had felt how all hell had broken lose in the three seconds before they switched to commercials. He thinks the Stark Drama petered out somewhat after that since Stark Indistries had decided to shut off all communications, but gossip about the next chapter lives on, the rumors ranging from company-level anarchy to family drama and even to an assassination plot.

 

Still, while that’s interesting and all it doesn’t benefit him _now_. So: “Enough about that, man.” Sam waves his hand dismissively. “What’s up with Hammer?”

 

At that, David brightens. He gestures Sam to come closer. “Come help me with Mrs. Finster here.”

 

Sam shoots a glance at Rushman, wordlessly asking if she needs anything else.

 

“Go,” Rushman says, amused, and she slumps back against the wall. The coin has magically reappeared on her left hand.

 

Sam turns to David. “So?” he asks. He braces a hand on the Mrs. Finster’s back and another on her arm. David does the same on the opposite side.

 

“Well,” David says, “One, the patient’s under Service One  — I know, that was my face too because, _ha_ , Dr. Palmer’s service — and, two, it’s one of the worst maulings I’ve ever seen.” His eyes widen. “Like, dude looked tortured, poisoned, torso sliced like a Thanksgiving turkey, etc. He doesn’t have any identification on him, and with the way his face’s banged up it’s kind of hard to see what he really looks like.”

 

Sam frowns. “What happened?”

 

If he hadn’t had his arms full with the patient, David looks like he’d be flailing. “That’s the thing. We don’t know! The guy was found halfway underneath some rose bushes, just at the foot of that ugly mural in the park, — you know, the Greek thing with the potato-shaped Hercules and a pothead Minotaur. He wouldn’t have been found if some early morning joggers didn’t see the trail of blood seeping out from under the bush.”

 

“How is he?”

 

They finally get Mr. Finster settled comfortably on the wheelchair. David shrugs. “Does yelling about giant monster snakes count as normal verbal output? You know, _I_ think someone’s got a fetish, what with the tattoo sleeves he had going on. You’d think the guy wishes he’s a snake instead — ”

 

Sam freezes.

 

“Of course, I could be wrong. His arm was basically sliced like ribbons so it was hard with all the blood to — ”

 

No.

 

“Wait,” Sam starts to say. “What do you mean —”

 

_Crash!_

 

They both start, turning around. The sound came from beyond the room, something heavy and metal falling to the ground. There’s the piercing, tinkling sounds of breaking glass. Beside the door, Natalie Rushman has stopped playing with the coin, her head cocked towards the sound.

 

Sam feels a pulse of dread. “Did you hear that?”

 

_Bang! Bang!_

 

All of them freeze.. A split second later, a single scream rings out, followed by an explosion of noise: muffled yelling, cries, the sound of running feet. Sam feels the hair on his back stand up. The initial sound was unmistakable —

 

“That was a gun,” David says, hushed voice slowly rising in panic. “That was a gun, oh my god — ”

 

—- and it was all coming from the triage area.

 

Sam moves. He ignores David’s shocked cry and goes running for the door —-

 

A hand clamps on his right arm.

 

“Don’t,” Rushman snaps. “Don’t be stupid! What can you do?” Her grip is surprisingly strong. She’s … suddenly different but — not quite, and if Sam had been in a better state of mind aside from terrified panic he’d wonder what had changed. But now —

 

He wants to do what she says — _fuck_ , does he want to — but he can’t (how to explain: that he thinks he knows what they want, who they’ve come for, and that someone could be dead because of him, and if he goes out maybe he can do something, _maybe_ —)

 

“I have to,” Sam says, a little hoarsely, and with a yank he rips away from her.

 

Rushman cries out his name, but Sam’s already darting out the door, crossing the short distance to the ER. At the hallway, he’s met by a crowd running past him, patients and personnel alike, most of them familiar, all looking scared and quick to get away. He pushes forward against the flow of the crowd. Sam thinks about all the people who can’t or won’t run — the people who’re too injured or sick and the families who refuses to leave their hospitalized loved ones alone and all the bedridden patients and _Riley,_ who he last saw here, hovering over one of her unstable cases —

 

When he reaches the mouth of the hallway, he stops, scoots to the side, presses his back against the wall and takes a peek.

 

Chaos. There’s an overturned cardiac monitor and a crash cart, a stretcher on it’s side. An IV stand is impaled halfway inside a cabinet, breaking most the medicines and spilling the contents on the floor. There are papers and books and bags abandoned everywhere, but unfortunately not everyone had been able to flee. There are people flat on the ground all over the room, huddled under the rows of waiting chairs in the middle or squished against the wall. Those on stretches and wheelchairs are frozen, afraid to draw attention to themselves, eyes trained on the spectacle just in front of the closed ER doors.

 

At the center of the chaos is a man towering over everyone, with one arm around the neck of a terrified Justin Hammer and the other wildly brandishing a gun. His clothes are dirty and blood-stained and ripped in multiple places, bleeding lacerations and bruises littered on all visible skin. There are patches on his arms that look like it they’d been flayed. The arm sleeves make them look like brutally skinned snakes, encrusted in blood and dripping on the floor. He seemed to have aged ten years and lost half his weight.

 

It’s so far from the man Sam encountered two days ago, but he knows him, alright.

 

This is Scraggly Face.

 

And it’s clear that whatever he’s open to, Sam’s plans for negotiating is not going to be one of them.

 

Shit.

 

“Get away from me!” Scraggly Face screams, heedless of the choked cries from his hostage. He spins to point the gun in different directions. His expression was madness. “Get away from me or I’ll kill him!”

 

Whatever happened hadn’t spared his face, now a swollen mess of contusions, busted lips, a bleeding nose, and a blackened right eye. There’s a partially stitched wound on his forehead, a dangling ripped gauze plastered on the right side of his face. His left eye — his left eye is a charred, black mess, and the surrounding area was blistered and bleeding, from the left cheekbone going backwards. His hair had been shaved on the left side, too, and the visible scalp was horribly burned and blistering, blood running and dripping downwards and coating his torso. Even from this distance, Sam can smell the rotting flesh, and he recoils.

 

He feels a soft touch on his elbow and nearly jumps. He turns around —

 

 _“What the hell are you doing here?_ ” Sam hisses at Natalie Rushman.

 

She ignores him. “Go back,” Rushman says, grabbing his arm, her eyes flitting from the scene to him. She starts to pull him back. “You have to go back — ”

 

“Sir, please,” Caldwell, a first year ER resident says. He’s tall and lanky and clearly hanging on to his calm by a mere thread, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Drop the gun. You’re in the hospital. You were found by some well-meaning joggers and brought here to be treated and you’re safe —“

 

“Shut up! Shut up!” The arm around the Hammer’s neck squeezes harder, eliciting a noise of pain.“Where is he? I know he’s here!” And, god, Hammer’s a dick, but Sam doesn’t want him _asphyxiated_.

 

“Stop!” Caldwell cries, taking a step forward. “You’re hurting him! Sir, please, we can help you!”

 

Sam tries to pry away his arm, but Rushman’s grip is iron-tight. There’s a brief struggle where she tries to move back with him and he pulls to fight it. Sam gives a particularly hard pull; his foot inadvertently takes a small step forward —

 

“You won’t fool me,” Scraggly Face spits out, baring his bloodied teeth. “This is a trick!”

 

— and steps broken glass.

 

The resulting crunch reverberates throughout the room, discordant and out of place in the mixture of muted pleas, sobs, and threats, and immediately Scraggly Face locks in on their location. Sam quickly pulls backward, pressing against the wall and keeping Rushman behind him, but it was too late.

 

“Come out.”

 

Sam swears.

 

“I know you’re there,” Scraggy Face says softly, after an agonizing beat. “Why are you hiding? Are you one them?”

 

Sam shifts to move. Natalie’s still holding his arm, whispering something, fast and urgent, but the words are too low and drowned by Sam’s racing thoughts, his heart banging against his chest.

 

“Come out or I kill him.”

 

There's a split second where Rushman's grip loosens, and Sam takes advantage of it: he pries his arm away, and steps out with his palms out and his arms raised.

 

Their gazes meet. For a beat, Scraggly Face’s expression switches to one of confusion, then his eyes widen. “Oh,” he murmurs, taking a step forward, the hand holding he gun falling to his side. The soft wonder in his voice is a jarring contrast to the way he effortlessly drags Hammer, who’s renewed his struggles with vigor. There are scratch marks on Scraggly Guy’s arm. To Sam’s horror, recognition starts to dawn on his face. “I know — ”

 

There’s a sound behind Sam.

 

Scraggly Face’s gaze shifts. And then he freezes.

 

“You,” Scraggly Face breathes.

 

Sam doesn’t dare to take his eyes off him, but at the corner of his gaze he sees a flash of red and _fuck_.

 

“ _You,”_ Scraggly Face snarls, the sound ripping out of him, animalistic. His expression twists into hateful rage. He throws Hammer away with surprising strength, taking one step in their direction. He cocks the gun. Screams erupt. The people around Sam’s area scramble to the sides, leaving only the two of them in the man’s path.

 

“Back! Get back!” Sam flings his arm out back and starts herding Rushman backwards into the hallway, trying to get her away.

 

“I knew it,” Scraggly Face spits. He starts to stalk towards them, his steps heavy and quick. “Trap. Knew it was a trap. Knew it. Know _you_. I know you – trickster – spider!” He switches to hard, angry Russian, spitting it out like a curse, and Sam may not understand that language but he knows murderous when he sees it.

 

This is bad.

 

Nails dig into his arm. “Sam. Sam, let me —“ She tries to shift to the side, trying to go in front of him. There’s blood pounding and white static in Sam’s ears. All around the room there’s a new round of yells.

 

“I’ll kill you!” Scraggly Face snarls wildly, and he breaks into a run. He raises his gun.

 

“ _Wilson!_ ”

 

Sam pivots, and as he does something small and fast whizzes past him, so close to his eyes he swears he sees it glinting – round and metal, the briefest glimpse of a woman’s shape — but he doesn’t care – _can’t_ – not right now. He completes the turn —

 

“ _Die!”_ Scraggly Face screams.

 

\-- and blindly tackles Rushman to the floor.

 

Sam hears three things at once: the loud crack of a gunshot, the entrance bursting wide open and calls to “S _tand down! Sir, stand down!”,_ and the popping, crackling sound of electricity, cutting short the injured man’s guttural war cry.

 

There’s smoke and heat.

 

A beat later, the overhead sprinklers turn on with a wail.

 

For what feels like forever, Sam’s only aware of selected sensations, muted and dull: the pervasive smell of burning flesh, the screams and yelling, the spreading wetness on his back, the hair tickling his nose. There’s a voice calling his name, a pressure on his chest —

 

“ _Sa — m — right — up —”_

 

— and then in a flash, everything becomes clear-cut, and the pressure on his chest crystallizes to Rushman’s palm pressing over his heart, which was beating hard and fast enough to burst straight out of his ribcage. Her head is tucked under his neck, cradled by his own hand.

 

“Sam, it’s okay,” Rushman’s saying, her voice muffled by his neck.  “We’re okay. I’m fine. You’re fine — ”

 

“Sir? Ma’am??” Heavy boots coming closer, the staticky sound of a police radio.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll just,” Sam babbles, scrambling up. He brushes dirt off his pants, for all the good it will do now that it’s steadily getting wetter. Distantly, he realizes he’s shaking, little tremors going throughout his body. In front of him, Rushman’s picking herself up from the floor, one hand braced on the ground and the other held out for balance. He attempts to help, grasping her outstretched hand at the wrist and starts to pull —

 

Pain lances through his side, making him gasp. His hand spasms, lets go, but Rushman’s already up, and she has an arm firmly on around his back, the other on his right elbow. She helps him brace himself as he automatically hunches and curls a hand over his side.

 

The officer finally reaches them. “Come with us, please.” There’s a sharp intake of breath. “Sir, you’re —

 

Sam pulls back his hand.

 

It was covered in blood.

 

“ — injured,” the officer finishes.

 

There’s a pause.

 

“No, shit,” Rushman says flatly.

 

“Ow,” Sam says, dazed.

 

—-

 

“Wilson, if you hadn’t twisted at the last minute — I swear to _god_ ,” Claire says. She glares as she puts the finishing touches on Sam’s newly bandaged wound, which was a long but bloody gash on his upper back where the bullet had grazed him.

 

Claire Temple’s one of the hospital’s newest hires but already one of their best and favorite nurses. She started her stint at the same time Sam started his ER rotation, and there’s nothing that solidifies a friendship quite like having thirty three trauma patients on your first day, courtesy of a major car crash. It really forms bonds. She had been there during Scraggly Face’s rampage, curved protectively over a couple of kids. She saw everything that had happened, so she readily volunteered to treat Sam’s injuries after they were all whisked away from the scene.

 

Rushman, on the other hand, had been lucky enough to escape unscathed so she mostly spent the past few minutes sitting beside Sam on the bed and refusing to leave his side, a pensive shadow that only occasionally spoke up. It’s usually to prod Claire about more of Sam’s memorable moments at work. Claire has plenty, and in the twenty minutes she took to treat his injury she’s already said about fifteen of them.

 

Like a true friend, Claire mostly shares the ones where he does something stupid.

 

“Er….But at least I did? Twist?”

 

Rushman pokes him hard on the uninjured side, making him yelp.

 

Claire just gives him an unimpressed look. “Do you hurt anywhere else?”

 

“No,” Sam says quickly, and when they _both_ just glare at him he adds: “I swear!”

 

The two women share a look of commiseration; and it’s creepy, frankly, the way they instantly just — started being friends.

 

“You: worst bedside manner ever,” Sam says, pointing to Claire. Then he points to Rushman. “And you! Aren’t you my patient? You should be on my side!”

 

“I’m on the side where you don’t do anything stupid like that again.” Rushman’s tone reeked of judgement.

 

“Exactly,” Claire says, crossing her arms and frowning at him, lips tight with worry. “You should have listened to her.”

 

Rushman had repaid Claire’s Anthology of Sam Wilson Human Disaster Moments by telling her what happened in the transition ward. Both their stories will be repeated later for the police much _much_ more professionally, but Claire’s Anthology of Sam Wilson Stupid Moments just definitely gained another entry.

 

“Conspiracy,” Sam complains, but under their gaze he eventually quails and admits that, yes, his head is aching something fierce, for which Claire gives him meds and actually watches as he took them. Sam wants to point out that the meds will do exactly jackshit — it’s less a physical pain than his brain sluggishly trying to piece _something_ together while high on adrenaline — but he figures there are some battles that you just can’t win.

 

In the end, though, the hospital stops for no man, gun or without, so Claire has to go and help with the aftermath of the attempted shooting. Sam’s been given the green light to go home and get some rest — seconded by all the members of his team via phone calls and text messages, apparently, because they’ve been roped into work immediately and so just promised to visit him later (with the exception of Hammer, who rumor has it is now demanding a lawsuit) — but he refused. He knows the sheer amount of additional work a semi-destroyed triage area entails is going to be a nightmare and he’s not that injured _anyway_ , so the compromise made was that that he can go back to work after a brief but strictly enforced period of rest right here inside the room.

 

“So he’ll be fine?” Rushman asks Claire before she leaves the open door. “He’ll be alright?”

 

“I’d prefer it if the workaholic stays home but what can you do,” Claire answers, giving Sam an exasperated look — one he returns with a sheepish grin — before she adds, “The police will arrive in a while, alright? You guys just sit tight. They’d want your statements.”

 

“Okay. Thank you,” Rushman says solemnly. The door closes behind Claire’s tall form, leaving just the two of them inside the room.

 

Five seconds later, Natalie Rushman turns and unceremoniously slugs Sam on his uninjured side, _hard,_ and then she says: “Wilson, what the _fuck_.”

 

“Ow!”

 

“Why did you do that?” Rushman demands, glaring at him.

 

“Do what?” Sam demands. Okay, so maybe the pain meds _are_ helping, just a bit — his head is kind of clearing, _kind of_ — but Rushman looks like she expects Sam to pick her trail of thought straight from her brain, which: yeah, no chance. His whole fucking _body_ is still buzzing, even now, and he’s mostly occupied with thinking how close they were to getting actually _shot_.

 

Rushman’s face is impassive, but her lips press together in a thin line. “You didn’t have to – ” She cuts off abruptly, glaring. “You shouldn’t have done that.” Her eyes flicker to his injury.

 

Sam stares at her, baffled. “He was going to shoot you!”

 

“Yes, me. Not you,” Rushman says evenly. “You should’ve run. Like I told you.”

 

“ _You_ could have been shot!”

 

“You could have been killed!”

 

“What—what else was I going to do?” Sam asks, bewildered. “ _Let him_?”

 

She stills, and her whole face shifts into an expression maybe somewhere between disbelief and wonder, but before Sam’s stretched nerves can really parse out what it was it’s already gone, replaced once again by an unreadable stare.

 

“What?” Sam demands.

 

Rushman ignores him. Her hand lifts up, as if to touch his injury, before she lets it fall.  “I could’ve hit you instead,” she says abruptly, after a heavy pause.

 

“You could’ve hit me?” Sam echoes. “Hit me with what? I …”

 

Natalie Rushman raises an eyebrow.

 

There’s a pause, Sam’s mind working on overtime. Like he’s in a trance, his eyes follow Rushman as she hops off the bed, walks with nary a sound, and smoothly turns so that she’s in front of him, crossing her hands in front of her chest. She’s looking at him evenly and standing with a stillness Sam would not have thought possible with the flailing girl he met earlier this day, the one who had loudly declared she’ll strangle Hammer with her IV. Sam thinks back to what happened: Rushman’s hand on his arm, strong and iron-tight, Scraggly Face’s whole new level of rage at seeing her, the vitriol spat out in garbled English and Russian, the thing — the thing that whipped past him, small and circular and —

 

…Oh.

 

“You gotta be kidding me.” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes as realization strikes.

 

“Kid you with what?”

 

Sam ignores her and continues, eyes still shut, letting his brain finally connect the last of the puzzle pieces it’s been trying to piece together since he met her, “That coin you were knuckle-rolling is a Russian Palladium coin, the one that celebrates the Russian ballet.”

 

“It is,” Rushman agrees.

 

“It’s a collector’s item. I should know. My sister once got a bunch of them as a gift after a show, and the dude wouldn’t stop bragging about how it can fetch up to like eight hundred bucks. We checked and — yeah.” He seriously _cannot_ right now.

 

“Eh, could go up, could go down,” Rushman says dismissively, and when Sam opens his eyes and gives her an unimpressed look, she shrugs, “Depends on a lot of things.”

 

“What’s the price if it also has the hidden feature of zapping people into a crisp?”

 

“High frequency electrostatic charge, actually,” Rushman corrects, and suddenly she has a coin delicately held between her index finger and her thumb. She gently presses on the coin’s center, and immediately it gives a threatening spark that dies as fast as it appeared. “It can also release percussive energy blasts.”

 

Sam shakes his head because _of course it does_.

 

The blank stillness around Rushman is gone, and she’s now looking at him expectantly. “It’s not mass-produced though. If you want one, that is. Custom-made only.”

 

“How special,” Sam remarks dryly. “How many do you have?”

 

“Enough,” she says smoothly.

 

Sam crosses his arms. “How’s Steve?” he finally asks.

 

“He says hi,” Rushman replies without missing a beat, and when that earns her a glare, she just continues, “He wanted to come, but he’s been sidetracked by work.”

 

“Oh, work,” Sam drawls. “Is he a ballet dancer too? A props manager? Couldn’t make it because the fake shields he made for the greek tragedy play got shat on by pigeons?”

 

“He _was_ harassed by birds, actually,” Rushman cocks her head, expression serious. “Did you know urban pigeons are basically mafia? Really ruffled Steve’s feathers.”

 

“A fowl plot was no doubt stopped,” Sam says, equally straight-faced and unimpressed. “You guys work fast.”

 

“Nah, I’ve been pecking away at their plans for a long time. You can’t wing this and hope to get lucky.”

 

“What a scary birden,” Sam says idly. “Owl keep an eye out for the bird mafia, then.”

 

Rushman nods. “Be careful. These guys are known for their rough —” her eyes glitter, “ — tweetment.”

 

Sam can’t help it. He facepalms and groans. Loudly.

 

“Oh my god,” Sam says, his voice muffled by his hands. “That was terrible. I hate you so much right now.” When he looks up, Natalia’s giving him a serious look, grave and apologetic.

 

“We don’t joke,” she says, huffing.

 

Sam snorts, and he’s rewarded by Rushman breaking out a tiny, impish grin.

 

“Steve was right,” she declares, and before he can ask about _what_ , exactly, was Steve right about she adds, “Well, for the most part.”

 

“… Thanks?”

 

“No problem,” Rushman says seriously. And then: “And it’s Natasha.”

 

Sam blinks. “Who?”

 

“My name,” Natasha says, and she only gives an amused huff at the expression on Sam’s face before she continues: “Steve asked for my help. He was worried about you,” Her eyes flickered to Sam’s wound. “And with good reason. There’s a lot of people looking for the guys that tried to shoot you.”

 

At that, the atmosphere immediately turned serious, and Sam’s hindbrain — which has only begun to settle — begins firing on all cylinders . “So he _was_ after me.”

 

“I don’t think so. Whatever happened didn’t happen in the park,” Natasha says. “He was _dumped_ in the park. They thought he was dead.”

 

“So he’s a message?”

 

“Maybe. Or maybe he lucked out and this was the nearest hospital, which just happens to be where you work,” Natasha says, and her face refuses to give away whether she believes what she’s saying or not. “But if it’s coincidence that he’s here, well. I’m glad Steve’s paranoid enough to want to check on you. It became a one-two hit: I found him,” She pauses, quirking an eyebrow. ‘“And I saved _you_.”

 

“Oh, wow,” Sam says dryly. “Hope saving my life didn’t get in the way of your day.”

 

“Oh, it was _worth it_ , I assure you.”

 

Sam flushes at the mischievous smirk on her face, and he changes track. “So that’s what he’s been doing? Trying to find Scrag — er, I mean, the shooter?” he asks,

 

Natasha thankfully does not comment on Sam’s nickname or any ear-flushing — not for lack of noticing, Sam thinks sourly, because the woman has probably been laughing at hm for the past five minutes, _internally —_ but she does say, “Sort of. He wanted to finish what he started. He found the two others you met.” A slight pause. “They were worse off than this guy.”

 

“But back then, they talk like Steve actually _did_ stop… whatever it was they were doing,” Sam says, brows furrowing. “I mean, they were pissed enough to beat him black and blue. And then he even went back to finish the job.”

 

“Oh, he did,” Natasha says, a hint of grim satisfaction peaking through. “But it’s a big group.”

 

Well.

 

The brief, tense silence that followed is broken by a particularly loud yell outside, calling for more hands on deck.

 

“But don’t worry about that, Wilson,” Natasha says, smiling lightly. She brings up a hand, giving him two quick pats on the cheek that’s done before Sam can even react. “Focus on your life. We’ll deal with that.” And she turns on her heel and starts for the door with nary a goodbye.

 

Sam scrambles out of the bed. “What — hey! Wait!” He closes the door behind him and follows her down the miraculously deserted hallway. “Where are you going?”

 

Natasha glances sideways at him.  She’s not even wearing _shoes_. “I’d tell you,” she says, her lips curling into a small smirk, “but then I have to kill you.”

 

“ _Haha_ ,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “But, seriously, you’re in pajamas.”

“I’ll be fine.” Natasha says. “I’m not the one who got grazed by a bullet.”

 

Sam almost — _almost_ — face palms in exasperation, if not for his wound. “At least change into — ”

 

“Samuel Wilson?” An authoritative voice rings out from behind them.

 

Instinctively, Sam turns, and he sees Maggie, one of the more elderly ER nurses, walking towards him, a concerned frown on her face. “What are you doing? We told you to rest!”

 

“I was!” Sam says, gesturing behind him. “But Nat — there’s a patient who — ”

 

The nurse looks behind him. “Patient?”

 

And when Sam turns, Natasha’s nowhere to be found.

 

He looks back to the nurse, who’s looking like she’s gearing up to bodily haul him into a bed and strap him down so he can rest.

 

He looks back to the empty hallway.

 

“Mr. Wilson, really — ”

 

The light catches on something metal on the ground, small and round and familiar.

 

“Sorry, Maggie, I’ll go back. I just —” Sam picks it up, staring at the Russian palladium coin, the light gliding through the raised lines of the ballerina, her neck arched like a swan. He turns it over, and the emblem of the former Soviet Union stares back.

 

It’s unlikely that she just dropped it accidentally — is this even idiot-proof? Ordinary-people-proof?? Hell, maybe this is a dunce coin, a literally normal Russian Palladium coin that he can totally sell to the market without the possibility of someone being electrified resting on his conscience —-

 

Sam scowls.

 

Again: unlikely.

 

( _You’ll meet again,_ a voice whispers at the back of his head. Sam studiously ignores it.)

 

He pockets it in a huff.

 

 _Spies_.

 

 

 

**THREE.**

 

 

 

A day later,  Sam’s wakes up to the sound of loud, incessant knocking, the kind that says it won’t stop until someone answers the door and fuck the fact that it’s — he glances blearily at the clock and swears — _three in the morning._

 

Sam’s half-dead from a regular day in the hospital that somehow stretched to eleven in the evening, so when he gets up from his bed it’s with all the grace of a baby giraffe. He trips over an errant sneaker, stubs his toe on the doorframe, and nearly brains himself on the old floor lamp he keeps in the hallway. By the time he reaches the hallway Sam’s in enough pain that he can set aside the exhaustion to dredge up some much needed hatred for… whoever the hell is ,knocking on his door.

 

In the split second between reaching for the doorknob and turning it open, there’s a little sliver of Sam’s brain responsible for rational decision-making that wakes up and tentatively points out that _maybe_ given everything that’s happened it would be extremely stupid for him to just open his door willy-nilly at three in the morning for some surprise visit…

 

… unfortunately, the bigger part of Sam’s brain is simmering on too much annoyance, too little sleep, and a whole lot of autopilot to care,  so before he can scrape up any kind of self-protective realization his hand is already opening the door —

 

— and the first thing he notices is the man in a rumpled black jacket and ill-fitting hospital scrubs. This is partially because he’s the one directly in front of Sam, but mostly because his left arm was raised in a fist, frozen mid-knock.

 

The little sliver of panicking rationality in Sam’s brain, taking this in with stunned indignation, abruptly stills.

 

Sam glares at his visitor balefully.

 

“Er, I can explain,” the man says, slowly uncurling his fingers from the fist he unceremoniously pounded on Sam’s door. A cap covers his messy black hair, and underneath it his face is cautious, vaguely familiar and with a truly horrendous goatee that somehow works _._ Maybe Sam would have better luck figuring out why this is so if his visitor weren’t bathed in eerie blue light, drowning out the sad hallway’s darkness.

 

(The rational part of him is now warily pointing out that the blue light is coming from the man’s _chest_ but again: it’s _three_ in the morning.)

 

Sam stops glaring long enough to make way for a truly impressive yawn. His gaze follows the man’s other arm, which was draped on the shoulders of his companion –

 

And comes face to face with Colonel James Rhodes.

 

Sam freezes on the doorway, one hand on the door knob and the other mid-way through scratching the side of his nose. His impressive yawn turns into a high-pitched wheezing inhale.

 

The last time Sam saw Colonel James Rhodes, he’d been extending his arm over the man’s huge mahogany desk to shake hands. While Sam had worn a suit, Colonel Rhodes had been in full military regalia, displaying a chest full of medals, exuding an aura of effortless authority and professionalism, and oozing wit that charmed the pants off Sam’s family. They were in the colonel’s office because James Rhodes wanted to personally congratulate the recipient of the scholarship created in his own name. Back then, Sam told himself the next time the colonel will see him it would be as a full-fledge doctor in the Air Force, and he would thank the older man for his part in fulfilling Sam’s lifelong dream. He’ll be in a better fitting suit, or maybe in a uniform almost as polished as Colonel James Rhodes’, but the point is he would be cool and professional and brilliant and _fucking presentable._

 

Not like — _this_.

 

“… Samuel Wilson?” Colonel James Rhodes, for his part, is hardly the epitome of military fashion right now. For one thing, he’s in civilian clothing — black jeans and a leather jacket, both of which looks like they'd seen better days — and, for another, he’s looking at Sam with slowly dawning, almost comically horrified recognition.

 

“Sir!” Sam says stupidly, while his mind is descending into the kind of horrified screaming that only comes with the realization that a decorated veteran is seeing him in nothing but bright yellow boxers decorated with hideously deformed baby eagles.

 

He’s never going to keep any of his siblings’ gag gifts out of sentiment _ever again._

 

“I — you don’t have to do that, son,” Colonel Rhodes is saying. He doesn’t comment on Sam’s half-dressed state. In fact, he looks like he’d want nothing more than to press his hands to his forehead if both of them weren’t currently occupied with half-carrying his friend. “I just — can we please come in?”

 

Sam almost jumps in his haste. “Of course! Come in!” They trudge past him in slow hobbling steps, with a “good man” grunted by the stranger and a brief look of genuine thanks from Colonel Rhodes.

 

“The living room is down to the left!” Sam calls out as he turns back to the door. “Or couch. Living couch. It’s small, is what I’m saying,” he trails off as he pokes his head out into the hallway — yeah, okay, clear (he thinks, a little wildly) — before he closes the door, locks it securely, and follows the two of them.

 

(He makes a detour to his bedroom first, though, and quickly changes into something more decent than boxers that practically amount to patriotic blasphemy.)

 

Sam’s apartment is small. The hallway’s a narrow lane, with the two doors to the left opening to the bathroom and the bedroom, and at the far end it opens to a space that encompasses both a tiny kitchen straight ahead and the living room just to its left, separated only by an island. Even when tries not to he manages to catch snippets of their conversation.

 

“ — believe you! When you said you know someone — ”

 

“— I know _of_ him, and see! Totally trustworthy — ”

 

“A _civilian!_ A _working student!_ Tony, I swear to god —- ”

 

Tony.

 

And just like that, he remembers where he’d seen the other man before.

 

Sam gets to the end of the hallway and sees them sitting on the couch at the far wall. Anthony Edward Stark, CEO of Stark Industries, presently looks nothing at all like the man he regularly sees on TV. Without the cap, the bruising on his face is evident, the wound over his right eyebrow stark. The dirty state of his clothes contrasts against the open lights of the room.  It also looks like he’s responding to being berated by Colonel Rhodes by wearing an expression that wouldn’t look out of place on a rebelling teenager.

 

“— were you thinking?!” Colonel Rhodes says, playing the part of the mother excellently.

 

“Survival!” Stark moves to throw a hand out — and hisses, aborting the movement to curl inward instead. His other hand crosses over to gingerly cover his side, disappearing behind his jacket.

 

When he pulls his hand back out, it’s covered in blood.

 

“ _Tony!”_

 

Oh, boy.

 

Sam sighs, abruptly does an about face, and makes a beeline for his bathroom. Even from there, the voices were _still_ audible.

 

“What?!” Stark’s saying. “It’s just a graze! I’m fine!”

 

“Just a gra — you’re bleeding all over the couch!”

 

“Look, I’ll get the kid a new couch. This one looks older than you, anyway — ”

 

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

 

“Let me see,” Sam says when he goes back, and the both of them quiet down as he puts the first aid kit on the coffee table and sits next to Stark. After a beat, the man grudgingly, carefully removes his jacket.

 

“I’m so sorry for the intrusion, Sam,” Colonel Rhodes finally says wearily. “You must have so many questions.”

 

“I do,” Sam agrees carefully, because this is a man he idolizes and technically will work for in the future so saying ‘ _you’re gotdarn right, sir’_ wouldn’t fly so well despite the circumstances. He examines the wound — long but shallow, thank god — but before he starts treating it he looks up, eyes flicking to the direction of the door, and asks the most important one: “What are the chances that whoever’s hell-bent on chasing you will find you here?”

 

“None,” It was Stark who answers immediately. “We changed cars thrice — borrowed, mind you, and all left in pristine condition somewhere out there in the Washington wilderness — took a hellishly convoluted route to get here, and on the way I erased our digital trail with a phone I definitely did not steal. We’re ghosts. You’re safe. I swear.”

 

He looks at Sam like he’s just _daring_ him to doubt his skills.

 

“Huh,” Sam says instead, “Okay,” and he goes back to attending to Stark’s injury.

 

“That’s all?” Stark asks, incredulous, after a few seconds of silence. “That’s all you’re gonna ask?”

 

“It’s the one that matters right now, yeah.” Sam says. He steadily works on the wound.

 

Then he adds, because he can’t help it, “And besides, will I even _get_ answers? If I ask?” Because this is the third time his average life has been disrupted by larger than life people with their larger than life problems, and seriously, what the hell?

 

Colonel Rhodes opens his mouth to reply, but Tony flaps his uninjured hand impatiently. “Rhodey, he’s already involved.” To Sam, he says, “Here, I’ll give you the summarized answer to _why_ we’re on your couch. Two words: Attempted murder.”

 

Beside him, Colonel Rhodes groans.

 

“Why is it always murder with you people?” Sam wonders out loud. The expression on Stark’s face says he knows _exactly_ who Sam’s talking about, confirming suspicions he’d had the minute he recognized the billionaire on his couch.

 

“It’s the devilish good looks,” Stark says. “Makes us delectable to assholes.”

 

“There was — there was an incident in Stark Industries. Tony ended up in the hospital,” Colonel Rhodes finally capitulates, sighing. “While he was confined, his room was infiltrated.” His lips thin in anger. “They tried to kill him. I think they were hoping to do it while he was asleep.”

 

“Joke’s on them,” Stark says, grim pleasure in his voice. “I don’t sleep.” He points to Colonel Rhodes. “And this guy stayed _way_ past visiting hours.”

 

Sam mentally checks off question ‘ _does this have anything to do with the fight that destroyed half of a highway a few days ago’,_ because while it was never explicitly said that Stark Industries had anything to do with it, the footage that was broadcasted live on TV showed fucking _robots_ duking it out on a highway; there’s only one company in the world capable of producing what looked like two baby Gundams, and it is not the one with a half-eaten apple logo.

 

“We escaped,” Colonel Rhodes continues. “Tony says he knew someone we can trust to help us. Of course,” He turns to glare at the side of his friend’s head, “If I had known _who_ , exactly, he was going for — "

 

Stark makes a sound of frustration. He turns to face Sam, “Coming here is the best chance we  have to not die.” He presses his hands together, not unlike in prayer. “Look, I got held hostage by a terrorist camp in Afghanistan that’s apparently a huge fan of my weapons division. When I made a dash for freedom I barely escaped with my _life_ , and someone lost _his_ . I go back here, I try to fix my shit, and I find out that illegal arms dealing is just the fucking _tip_ of the iceberg. And you know what’s worse? The one calling shots is O — someone close to the company! Who forged my signature! And _also_ tried to have me killed!” He stands up and immediately starts pacing. “So, see, a dead me is unacceptable right now because a man just gave his life so I can get my ass back here to fix all my shit — which I am now just starting to _painfully_ acknowledge is very substantial and disturbing — but for that to happen I need people to actively trying to kill to get off my ass _and let me work!_ ”

 

He’s heaving when he finishes, standing before them like all he wants to do is upend the coffee table.

 

There’s a ringing silence for about ten seconds

 

“Feeling better?” Colonel Rhodes asks delicately.

 

“Much, thank you,” Stark says stiffly. He points to Rhodey.

 

“What Tony’s saying is that he needs to lie low for a while, maybe just for a day or two,” Colonel Rhodes translates helpfully, as Stark maneuvers back to his seat. “If you agree.”

 

Stark grimaces, but then a split second later, he slumps, the fight going out of him. He gives a jerky nod of agreement.

 

“Why me, though?” Sam asks, genuinely perplexed. “You guys must have like - twenty other locations equipped with a whole medical team. I’m a complete stranger. You _know_ this is kind of weird.”

 

“The ones who tried to kill Tony were the nightshift guards stationed outside his room. They were personally handpicked by SI’s affiliated security company.” Colonel Rhodes’ expression is grim. “Which means all our usual means of communication and all our possible safehouses _could_ be compromised. Most important thing to do right now is to figure out what the hell is happening in Tony’s own company, contact Miss Potts, and establish a secure connection to J.A.R.V.I.S”

 

“So this is where I come in,” Sam says, cocking his head in question. “Because I’m an outsider.”

 

“No, it’s more than that! You make it sound like we’ll pick some rando off the street and call it good,” Stark says, and he gingerly twists until he’s facing Sam. “Look, Rhodey himself picked the winner of the Rhodes Scholarship, okay. He picked you out of _four thousand_ applicants. Steve Rogers waxed poetic about your shared penchant for stupid plans that somehow work. Romanov _trusts_ you — or, well, approves enough to drop her disguise like two seconds after meeting you. She posed as my nurse for six weeks and I never knew!” He flails the hand on his uninjured side. “That’s three of the most paranoid people in the planet practically giving you five stars. So I don’t know you from Adam, but if I had to pick anyone I’m pretty sure wouldn’t stab me in the back right now? It’s you.”

 

Sam opens his mouth to respond, closes it when he doesn’t know what to say. It feels like he’s back in the alley again, where whatever he chooses to do next will have two wildly different consequences he can’t undo easily. He’d trusted his gut then, and it told him that Steve Rogers was someone he can believe.

 

His gut now —

 

His gut now is …

 

... is saying the same thing, _dammit._

 

Tony Stark has been labeled by the media as everything from a blood-sucking capitalistic pig to a Merchant of Death. It’s not the most ringing endorsement, but then even if half of what the media showed about the billionaire were true  — things are a little bit different now, aren’t they? And Tony Stark is actually _here_ , in the flesh, and for all that the tech genius plays up the reckless, devil-may-care side of him for the public, he looks dead serious now. There’s a tightness to his eyes that hints he knows this was a huge gamble in the first place, despite the bravado he’s displayed. God help them, Sam thinks, realizing something unspoken: they’ll actually go if he tells them to, even at the risk of being killed.  Whatever’s going on with them doesn’t affect Sam personally, so they know perfectly well he has no investment to care, especially when doing so goes against the interest of survival. They’d understand.

 

Let them go now. That would be the pragmatic decision — that would seriously be the best decision —

 

But —

 

“I have a laptop,” Sam says, sighing, standing up from his seat.

 

Stark read it for what it is, and a look of relief crosses his face. “Oh, thank god. Thank _you_.”

 

“The couch is a pullout,” Sam goes on, heading to the kitchen island, where his bag has been since he got home. “I can lend you some clothes and there’s food on the fridge, but if you don’t like whatever’s there delivery numbers are pinned over the stove —” He sees Stark attempting to stand up and points,  “What — no! Sit down, oh my god!”

 

“Sleep and sustenance is for the weak,” Stark declares. “We have prey to catch!”

 

“Does sustenance include coffee?” Sam asks, arching an eyebrow. He pointedly looks at the coffeemaker. “You move and I will hide this thing in my room.”

 

“…. Except coffee,” Stark says, grudgingly sitting back down.

 

Sam shakes his head, pulling out the laptop. “Honestly, man, even just for a _night_ — ”

 

Colonel Rhodes chuckles, standing up and walking over to Sam.  “Let me get that,” he says, and then he tucks the laptop with one hard and squeezes Sam’s arm meaningfully with the other. He still looks worried and pinched, but it’s softer. “I’d rather you’re not involved in the first place but … well, thank you for letting us stay.”

 

“I — it’s not that much of a problem,” Sam says, awkward with the gratitude. “I’ll just leave the clothes here, yeah? And the coffeemaker’s pretty standard.”

 

Perhaps sensing his discomfort, Colonel Rhodes just gives him a smile and one last thankful clap on the back before he goes back to the couch, bringing the laptop with him.

 

Clearing his throat, Sam says, “Stark, one more thing: that laptop is seven years old so i don’t know —”

 

“O ye of little faith,” Stark says, making ‘gimme’ motions with one hand at the laptop. “You can give me the very first Stark model and I’ll still — _what the hell is this?”_ he cuts off abruptly, aghast, as he pulls the device out from its sleeve.

 

“… My laptop?” Sam says, and Stark looks at him with such betrayal that Sam has to roll his eyes. “Dude, I never said it was a Stark computer.”

 

“This is a Mac! A seven-year old Mac!”

 

“Yes, and it still works,” Sam says patiently.

 

“Dear god, you poor soul. I will get you the latest Stark model,” Stark says, putting the laptop down on the coffee table like he would a very fragile but very ugly vase. He opens it up and grimaces. “Faster, lighter, _better_ than this cavemen piece of — look, ugh, the keyboard is so ugly.”

 

“Tragedy,” Colonel James Rhodes drawls, expression dry as the desert wind. Stark flips him the bird.

 

Sam watches as the two men devolve into good-natured bickering. He knows that one of the few humanizing angles the media always gives to Tony Stark  is that he’s best friends with someone like stalwart, rule-abiding citizen James Rhodes. Seeing at them now, he thinks the media missed something important when they never pondered on _why_ Colonel James Rhodes is best friends with Tony Stark.

 

Or maybe they don’t want to know. Huh.

 

“I got it from my brother when he got his replaced. It’s kind of a thing when you’re the youngest out of three siblings,” Sam says, sparing a brief second of regret because he interrupted a particularly devastating burn about Stark’s soul patch. “Our mutual friends didn’t tell you about the hand-me-down family tradition? Especially Natasha? She seems like the type to know the secrets of the universe.”

 

Stark freezes. “Ehhh,” he hedges. “They didn’t exactly _talk_ to me about it — ”

 

And at that, Colonel Rhodes gives an almost gasp, eyes widening. “Oh, Tony,” he says. “You _didn’t_.”

 

“It’s not like they’ll know!”

 

“They don’t know? They don’t know that this is where —”

 

“We’ll be here for less than, like, a day —”

 

“They like him!”

 

“I know!”

 

“ _Tony.”_

 

—-   

 

Sam makes Stark swear on his grave that nothing will happen to Sam’s files. After that, he puts the spare clothes on the counter and leaves the both of them there in the living room, poring over his laptop. There’s a part of Sam that wants to stay, less because he thinks he can help with… whatever Stark is doing on his laptop and more because this is… clearly a situation and, again, he’s not immune to the desire to find out _what the hell is going on_ ; but there’s a bigger, more sensible part of him that’s repeatedly pointing out he has to go back to the hospital in three hours, which means at least two and a half hours more of sleep, two and forty-five if he’s feeling particularly daring (he’s not).

 

“Go to bed, Sam,” Colonel Rhodes had insisted as well. “We’ll take it from here. We’re _fine,_ and I know you have to be up in a few hours. You have to rest.”

 

“Hell, and who knows,” Stark adds, his eyes on the screen, his fingers a blur on the keyboard. “Maybe when you wake up we’ll be gone. This will all be like a mildly unpleasant dream…”

 

—-

 

“This is a nightmare,” Stark declares the minute Sam reappears the following morning.

 

“Did you even sleep?” Sam asks, because while Stark does look better —- he’s taken a bath and changed his clothes, so that’s a plus —- there’s also a manic look in his eyes that not even the non-threatening hue of a bright yellow t-shirt can mask, so he mostly looks like a serial killer in pajamas.

 

“Power naps,” Stark admits. “Rhodey made me.”

 

“That’s good,” Sam says, amused at Stark’s grudging tone. “You needed it.”

 

“ _Almost_ as much we needed this,” Stark says, patting the top of his laptop. “So I found a way to connect to J.A.R.V.I.S. and contact Pepper, but we have agreed decided to postpone meeting up with her in light of a few…. things.”

 

“A few things?”

 

“Company stuff. And things,” Stark says, not weirdly at all.  “We have decided! To forgo picking me up for now. In the name of investigation.”

 

“And she agreed?”

 

“She is super mad and worried and I’m frankly afraid for my life when I finally see her, but she agreed,” Stark concedes, and the expression on his face hints that the memory of that conversation was not pleasant at all. “J.A.R.V.I.S. will be with us the whole time, and she’s going to send over someone qualified to help me.”

 

“What about Colonel Rhodes?” Sam asks.

 

Starl shakes his head. “Can’t come, so I need someone else. Someone trustworthy, capable, and deadly. Someone with a sense of death-defying _adventure_.”

 

“So like zero sense of preservation,” Sam asks blandly.

 

Stark points the finger straight at Sam. “Exactly!”

 

Sam snorts, and then he finally digests the first part of what Stark said. “Wait, what?” He looks around, noting that there really is no one else in his apartment. “Where —- ?”

 

At that, Stark’s eyes gleam. “He went back to work. See,” He gestures to the screen, “In my dumpster diving that somehow branched into various companies, government agencies, and one very skeevy waffle house at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, there is one name that keeps on popping up, so either this man has the worst luck in the world or he’s really just that bad.” He cocks his head. “Have you heard of Thaddeus Ross? He’s a —”

 

“Major General of the Air Force,” Sam says. “Yeah, I know him.” At Tony’s questioning look, he shakes his head. “Met him before. When I officially got my scholarship. It wasn't …. good.”

 

“I’m guessing it wasn’t a nice meeting?”

 

Sam snorts. “He’s bad news.”

 

“I told Rhodey that too! The man _looks_ like a douche!” Stark exclaims. “But you know, I’m on the run and you’re a … someone I shall no way in hell involve any more that you are right now because I _like_ being alive, thank you, so what can _we_ do? Nothing. But Rhodey? Rhodey is just two ranks lower than the man and ten times more endeared to their workplace population. _He_ can snoop around.”

 

Sam stops, halfway to putting on his backpack. “Aren’t you guys both on the run _?_ ”

 

“ _I’m_ on the run,” Stark corrects. He takes a sip of coffee, one hand still flying across the screen. Beside him are five other empty mugs. “Rhodey was there way past visiting hours and the cameras were _conveniently_ turned off at the time of attack, which —” He flashes a vicious smile at Sam “— works _entirely_ on our favor now. They didn’t catch anything at all.”

 

Sam frowns. “What about the ones chasing you guys? What happened to them?”

 

At that, Stark pauses in his typing. “Absolutely nothing that you can prove had anything to do with me,“ he says lightly, “And it’s very unlikely the other goons they sent after us got a good look at who I was with. Taser shockwave barriers _are_ very distracting.”

 

“Where the hell did you get a _taser shockwave barrier?_ ”

 

Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “I made one.”

 

Before Sam can reply, the metallic crash of garbage cans toppling to the ground punctures the air. Several cats start indignantly yowling, some started hissing angrily, and then it was followed by the enthusiastic barks of a very excited dog.

 

From his spot, Stark brightens, closing the laptop. “That’s my trusty partner, I bet. Right on time! Just like Pepper said. God, I love that woman.”

 

“Your signal is pushing garbage cans to the floor?”

 

“Well, I told Pepper to please make it as inconspicuous as possible, and no creeping up on your window like a creeper because you are, and I quote your boss, a _civilian,”_ Stark says. He frowns, cocking his head to the sound. “I’m guessing this is their way of knocking?” At the look on Sam’s face, Stark rolls his eyes. “Aw, come on, Wilson. And it’s _scarily_ accurate to Pepper’s timetable. I need backup, and I need to go now. It doesn’t hurt to check.”

 

There’s no window on the wall facing the alleyway, but Sam goes closer just the same and turns his ear to the sound. The cats seem to have disappeared, but the dog’s still barking, more muted but enthusiastic all the same.

 

Then, a muffled voice that sounded a lot like: “Aw, Lucky, _no_.”

 

“Two seconds ago, you just said you’re on the run,” Sam points out, while keeping his ear close to the wall. He doesn’t hear the voice again. “Now you’re saying you have to go pronto? The sun’s still out!”

 

“I know, but this is important! The CEO of Stark Industries is going on a surprise tour of his research facilities.” Stark stands up and rubs his hands together, eyes gleaming. “Some are more active than I expected, and, no, before you say anything,” he says quickly,  “I’ll make sure they don’t see me. There’s a plan and everything. And, look! Backup!”

 

On cue, there is a shuffle, a yelp, and then a sound akin to metal on metal — like something banged off the dumpster — followed by an _oof!_ and the unmistakable sound of a body toppling into the dumpster.

 

Sam jerks his thumb. “I think your backup just fell in the garbage.”

 

“He’s not on the job _yet_ , Wilson. Don’t be judgmental.”

 

Stark stands up and makes for the door.

 

“Oh, no,” Sam says firmly, and he blocks Stark’s path to the door. “Nope. Not a chance. _I’ll_ give him the welcome speech. I have plenty of time before work, and it lessens the chances of someone recognizing you. It’s rush hour, man.  The streets are filled. _You,_ on the other hand,” he points to Stark, and then he points to the small army of mugs sitting on the coffee table, “You are going to wash those. I am not gonna clean your shit.”

 

“Are you ser — ”

 

“Stark, they’re just _mugs_.”

 

“But — ”

 

“You can figure it out.”

 

“WILSON — ”

 

He closes the door on Stark’s panicked face.

 

(If he had stayed about three seconds more, he’d have heard a hissed, “ _But where’s the dishwasher?”)_

 

 

**FOUR.**

 

 

“Down, boy! Just lemme get up — stop _licking_ for a second, please, Lucky, there is something supersharp poking my buttcheek —”

 

Sam stares at the very disheveled figure half-buried in the dumpster beside his apartment, in The Alleyway That Started Everything. The newcomer had blonde hair, toned arms trying and failing to stop the labrador retriever sitting on his chest from licking away his features through sheer enthusiasm… and a wicked-looking gash on his right upper arm, peeking out of his shirt sleeve. A banana peel is sprawled two inches away from it and an empty grease-covered bottle of milk is almost kissing the man’s skin and Sam internally screams for a bit because _oh my god infection._

 

He clears his throat. Blonde Guy stops flailing.

 

“Need help?” Sam asks delicately, in lieu of saying _get out of there or so help me god_.

 

“Please,” Blonde Guy groans, holding out a hand. The other wraps around the dog. “I got the call, so now I gotta drop him off at my friend’s house. He’s very excited to walk farther than the fridge.” Between the two of them, they managed to maneuver so that the man can finally brace a foot on the dumpster’s rim, and with a pull from Sam he goes and jumps, landing lightly on the ground. The minute he does, the dog — Lucky, Sam recalls — drops to the ground and starts zipping around them in large circles, and when Sam drops down on one knee Lucky gives a joyful bark and immediately puts his head under Sam’s hands.

 

“Aw, aren’t you cute,” Sam says, smiling. “Nice dog.”

 

At that, the man beams in return. “I know, right? He’s awesome.” He stretches out a hand. “Clint Barton.”

 

“Sam Wilson,” Sam says, shaking his hand. “Was the dumpster doing something suspicious?” Lucky headbutts his hand, barking, and he obligingly starts scratching his ears. The dog’s tail is wagging crazily. “I can’t think of any other reason any sane animal would jump inside. I think even the rats stay away from these things.”

 

“Hardly,” Barton snorts.“He got distracted by a cat, who jumped in the dumpster, so _he_ jumped in the dumpster, so _I_ jumped in the dumpster because possible pointy garbage and dog do not mix,” he says, with the fond but long-suffering expression known to all dog-owners. He starts brushing off any lingering trash on his clothes, which looked … way more ordinary than Sam would expect. In fact, everything about the man looked _harmless_ . Purple shirt and brown cargo pants and beat-up rubber shoes, paired with messy blonde hair and stubble to boot. It’s a combination more suited to college kids skipping class to study for another class, going on no sleep and six cups of coffee. He even has a _backpack_.

 

The man twists, a hand going to his rear, swearing when he peels off an orange rind that got stuck. Sam gets a glimpse of his backpack, and the main compartment had somehow come open. The movement dislodges a small, black cylinder the size of Sam’s thumb, and it falls.

 

Still kneeling, Sam moves to catch it. “Hey, there’s something —”

 

—- and between one blink and the next, the man’s hand is already there, closing into a fist.

 

“Oh, boy, that was close,” Clint whistles. He catches Sam’s expression, and says: “Sorry, it’s not you but this is a — something.  A fingerprint-activated — just, honestly, you do _not_ want to find out what happens if you touch it.”

 

“Noted,” Sam says faintly, and tries not to show how slightly freaked he is at that frankly inhuman display of speed and accuracy. Apparently this is a Normal Thing for Clint Barton, and Sam will not act like a newbie in this apparent game of spies and superheroes he’s found himself in. He’s dealt with six-feet of superhuman healing, a grifter with taser coins, a genius billionaire returned from the dead, and his own commanding officer, the last two in his fucking pajamas. He’s _got_ this.

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll get that arm treated?” Sam says instead, gesturing to the wound.

 

Aaaand Sam finds the freaked awe diminishing _somewhat_ when, in the true tradition of Sam’s recent new acquaintances, Barton only shrugs and says, lifting the aforementioned arm. “Eh, this? I’ll get by.”

 

Which: no.

 

Sam cups Lucky’s face in his hands, solemnly says, “I see a pattern. Your buddy is not an exception,” before he stands up.

 

The dog only barks happily in reply. Sam takes it as agreement.

 

“Come on,” Sam continues, gesturing for Clint to follow him. “Just — let me check for myself. I got a few minutes to spare before work. Whatever you and Stark will do, I get the feeling internal bleeding won’t do any good.”

 

Barton falls into step beside him, Lucky trotting beside him. There’’s a few seconds of silence before he adds conversationally, “I once saw Nat — she says hi, by the way — take a bullet to the leg and go on to take down twenty men.” He smirks “Trust me, doc. I’m _almost_ normal.”

 

“God help me,” Sam mutters. Then he falters slightly in his steps, remembering the conversation from the night before. “Natasha knows? Stark said she didn’t.”

 

At that, Barton’s smirk widens.

 

—-

 

“Romanov _knows_?” Stark says, horrified.

 

“Uh-huh,” Clint says. “Cap too.”

 

“ _Fuck_.”

 

—-

 

_“…. here live on CNN. A wave of explosions rocked the bowels of one of the world’s oldest weapons facilities, causing a severe power outage within a five mile radius. The company who owns the property, none other than S…”_

 

Sam gets the call as he’s going home from his shift. It had been a relatively light 24 hours, with few admissions and even fewer emergencies, and he would have gladly celebrated with his friends right after if he hadn’t been in perpetual needlesticks about his situation at home. Which he had been. For twenty-four hours. He thinks the peace of the hospital had been a brief reprieve from above, like a rest period, because despite what Stark said right before he and Barton left he has a _bad feeling_ about all this, and it’s going to start with whatever he finds back in his apartment.

 

So as it is, Sam almost misses the incoming call in his haste to go home, too engrossed in maneuvering through the crowded hallways of the hospital, the noise of the machines, and the hundreds of conversations around him drowning out his tiny ringtone. It was the vibrations that alerted him just as he stepped outside. He fishes his phone out, keeping an eye on the incoming cars driving up the rotunda in front of the main entrance.

 

Sam starts to say, “Hello — ”

 

“Sam, are you still in the hospital?”

 

And he barely manages to avoid clipping the front of a car because —

 

“Steve?” Sam demands. The voice in line was unmistakable, but it was also off: tense, worried, an underlying thread of panic barely kept at bay. “What — I — Yeah, I’m at the front. What —”

 

“We got someone. He’s — he’s badly injured. Can you get some supplies?”

 

Shit.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I can. What do you need?” Sam says, making a beeline back to the entrance. As Steve talks, Sam feels dread pool in his gut. “Steve, what happened? Where the hell are you?”

 

“I’ll try to explain later,” Steve says. “But we’re at your place right now. I hope you weren’t too partial to your carpet.”

 

Double shit.

 

 

 

**FIVE.**

 

 

 

There’s blood on the hallway, twin tracks punctuated by half-blotted steps, as if the person wavered between walking and being half-dragged. A dirty bandage lies on the floor, stained and lying in a pool of blood. Sam falters, his arms tightening around the bulging plastic of supplies he managed to grab from the hospital, before he shakes himself back to focus —- only blood, only blood, he’s seen enough of those to last a lifetime — and he starts to move when he hears a familiar voice.

 

“Sam,” and Steve appears at the end of hallway, greeting him with only a brief, strained smile. “In here,” he says, and Sam follows.

 

They get to the living room, and there’s a split second where he takes in the rest of them — Stark on the floor with Sam’s laptop once again, Steve Rogers taking the plastic bag from his hands, and Natasha Romanov standing before the window, dressed in all black and still as a statue — before his eyes fall to the unknown man resting half-naked and prone on his couch and he swears, moving faster.

 

“Help me line,” Sam says, stopping in front of the couch, taking in the mess. And it _was_ a mess. Old raised scars criss-crossed his back, some miraculously untouched, most re-opened and adding to the bleeding. Multi-colored bruises dot around new injuries like gruesome stars. The newest lacerations are stark against the man’s skin, from the top of his shoulders to the small of his back. Some are mere slits, and there were those that were stitched, but most yawned wide open, slowly oozing blood that slid down to Sam’s couch, soaking the fabric so much that when Sam braces a hand to lean over and check the man pulse — slightly faint but there, _thank god_ — it goes down with a faint _squelch_. Sam startles, staring at his soaked hand, and it’s only now that he notices the stack of used gauze at the floor, all soaked with blood. How long has this man been bleeding?

 

“What happened?” Sam asks instead, dropping to his knees. He pulls off his bag and starts rummaging through its contents.

 

“Flagellation,” Natasha says softly, and she drops down beside him, grabbing the IV line and fluid and cannula Sam pushes to her without a word. “We stemmed the flow as best as we could, and closed some before we ran out of supplies.” She works as she speaks, and before he knows it she has a line on the man in what feels like ten seconds, propping the IV up with a hand and letting it flow.

 

“He’s just like me,” Steve says as he starts helping as well, quickly going to the man’s other hand with his own set.  “At least, they tried to make him like me, but his healing factor’s not working as well as we hope.” His face twists in anger. “God knows how long he’s been there. The extent of what they did we’re still trying to — ”

 

“I’m working on it,” Stark says through gritted teeth, the staccato sound of his fingers flying over the keyboard with a new kind of fervor. “Those fuckers are trying to erase everything _as we speak_.”

 

“You say they _tried_ to make him like you,” Sam says to Steve. He puts the suturing kit he snagged from hospital on the chair Tony helpfully kicks towards him with a foot. He cleans, he wipes, he makes a sterile field. “Are allergies a thing? Can I give painkillers? Antibiotics?”

 

Steve’s answer is cut off as the man lets out a groan of pain on Sam’s first touch, and Steve barely manages to tape the line in place before he spasms, his back curving like a bow. Immediately, their hands were on him — even Tony, who had quickly abandoned the laptop on the floor — and between them they manage to calm him down before he opens any more wounds.

 

“Dr. Banner,” Steve is saying, grasping the man’s hand. “You’re safe. You’re not there anymore. You — ”

 

“I know, thank y — _ow_. Sorry,” the man gasps out hoarsely, and one of his eyes peek open, staring at Sam, the warm brown color glazed and bright. “I heard. That won’t work.”

 

“Bruce,” Stark says, “Come on — ”

 

Banner stubbornly shakes his head once. “I’m telling you: meds _don’t work_ . Metabolism’s too fast. Serum eats it up,” he says, weariness bleeding through his voice. “Captain, it wasn’t that much of a failure. Not there at least. You _know_ it won’t work.”

 

Sam looks to Steve, who’s face is twisted like he wants to break something.

 

Steve forces out a jerky shake of his head and tightly agrees, “No allergies, no infections. Meds don’t work. Our metabolism’s too fast.”

 

Sam stares at the bottle of disinfectant he’s holding, dismayed. It’s probably not even gonna help, but he thinks… he thinks his theory in the alley still stands now: the superhealing’s still finite, it can only go so fast, and it can only cover so many wounds — the body’s rule is about survival, after all, so it’s alway going to go for the worst injuries first — so maybe if it focuses on the injuries that are already there rather than new onset infection, maybe it can work faster.

 

Shit, this is going to hurt.

 

And as if she read his mind Natasha quietly crouches, taking Bruce’s other hand in hers, and says, “Dr. Banner, we have someone who can help you here and he’s going to have to disinfect your wounds again before he stitches them up. No — don’t move, you _know_ it would help. Even a little, but it’s going to hurt. Pass out if you have to, okay?”

 

Banner looks torn for a beat, his eyes flitting among them, before he slumps down. “Okay. Okay, I —” Banner cuts himself off, chuckling wearily, his eyes falling closed. He sounds far away. “I’ll be okay, really. Two — three days. I’m actually on a damn bed. Don’t even have to be here… more important … work…”

 

Sam swallows the bile down his throat.

 

“You’re grateful for a couch, not a bed,” Stark repeats flatly, eyes flashing. “Why are you gr — you’re dumb if you think we’re just gonna _leave_ — ”

 

Natasha’s grip tightens. “Dr. Banner.”

 

“… Okay,” Banner breathes. “I’ll do my best.”

 

Sam blows out a breath. He eyes the bleeding mess of the man’s back down to his cotton pants, spies what suspiciously looks like a fucking _manacle_ peeking through cloth, and abruptly refocuses to the man’s back because he can’t — he can’t help with that, not right now, but he _can_ help with this.  He survey his meager suturing kit, the unopened sterile gloves, the new packs of gauze that seems too inadequate for what he’s about to do, the meds that are now apparently _useless_.  

 

“This is gonna suck.”

 

—-

 

Sam doesn’t know how long they were there, but it was enough for what little daylight to disappear, for the bandages and gauze to pile even higher inside the trash and spill over the rim, and for Barton to return from wherever he’d disappeared to.

 

“Is it done?” Steve asks him, standing on one end of the couch. He’s been there from the start up to the present, where Sam’s pulling the last stitch on the last suturable laceration closed, ready and watchful and dutifully doing everything Sam can’t do with his gloved hands, and it’s only through him that Sam figures out there’s someone new in the room.

 

“Yep, and good riddance,” Clint says, sounding tired but vindicated.

 

“You’re injured,” Natasha observes. She’s on Sam’s other side, perched on the couch, and when Sam finally starts cleaning, she’s ready with the sterile solution, offering it silently, even as her eyes are completely on Clint.

 

“You should see the other guys,” Clint says mildly. There are footsteps coming closer, stopping just behind Sam, and then he says, softly: “God, I hope they chase the trails all the way to the end.”

 

“How many did you place?” Tony asks. He’s back on the laptop and in the process of systematically scouring through every file he managed to steal before, in his words, “the bastards committed digital suicide”. A few minutes ago, he’d launched straight into reading aloud a summary of what he found, getting steadily angrier and angrier, until he fell dead silent. No one tried to make him talk again. Sam, on the other hand, had taken all the willpower he had and focused it on making his hands not shake. It wasn’t the best background noise for working.

 

_“…. General Thunderbolt Ross and Ob — Obadiah Stane spearheaded a project attempting to resurrect Howard Stark and the SSR’s World War II project to create super soldiers, but they couched it as an experiment aiming to make people more immune from gamma radiation. ” Tony said, bulldozing through the hitch in his voice with all the grace of a wounded soldier. If Sam hadn’t had his eyes dedicated to Bruce’s back and his ears to Tony’s words, he would have seen Steve’s hand falter from where he’s replacing one of the IV fluids. “Bruce Banner is the world’s leading gamma radiation expert. He was told he was going to help in a humanitarian effort to protect people from radiation poisoning, and he accepted.”_

 

_“Ah,” Natasha said. “And I’m guessing he found out the truth.”_

 

“Seven. All of them ends in an abandoned something in the middle of bumfuck, nowhere.” A pause. “I may or may not have rigged them with explosives. Maybe a claymore mine.”

 

 _“Yeah, so he wanted out,” Tony confirmed. “But they threatened him. Forced him to work, until a glitch in the project caused an explosion that killed everyone in the room except for him. He turned into — into something called Hulk, I still have to look at the tapes — but he was the only survivor. Officially, though, he’s dead, and the so-called radiation experiment was shelved. Unofficially? It’s alive and kicking, and Banner became a test subject, because while his whole transformation was an accident and unpredictable — it only happens if the heart rate is over 200 — it was_ **_there_ ** **,** _so they … experimented. Thoroughly.” A pause, and then Tony continues, the anger leashed to his voice, “Stark industries’ research facilities here in Washington were replaced by the Naval Research Laboratories five decades ago, but the bones are apparently still there underground. Enough to continue the experiments. Obie, you fucking bastard.” He says the last sentence more to himself, trailing off into furious silence._

 

_“Two years,” Steve said softly. “He was missing for two years.”_

 

Stark brightens audibly. “Can it be remotely controlled?”

 

“…. Yep.”

 

“ _Excellent_ ,” Stark says, vicious pleasure coursing into his voice. “Only needs a little push in the right direction. Gimme the coordinates, Barton.”

 

“It would be my pleasure.”

 

“Done,” Sam says, taping the last of the gauze in place. He strips off the gloves and flings it into the overflowing trashbin. He pulls down his mask and stands up, fighting through a wave of dizziness at the sudden change in position after hours of sitting hunched. He brushes off Steve’s attempt to help him up, crosses the room to the thermostat mounted on wall nearest the kitchen. He doesn’t look at any of them. “It would do his healing good if he’s not shivering,” Sam says, and he flips the temperature of the room a few degrees higher.

 

“Sam,” Natasha starts to say.

 

“Look,” Sam cuts her off abruptly, whirling around to face them. He crosses his arms on his chest. “I know you think I was being really calm about all this, sitting there stitching a _flayed_ back as best I could, but I keep hearing words like ‘superserum’ and ‘generals’ and ‘experiments’ and, seriously, a man’s got limits.” He looks each of them in the eye. “Before, I was okay with what you told me, and I trusted you guys when you said you’d take care of it. And I hadn’t asked any of you for a better explanation because I get how these things go, so I still know _shit_ about what’s really going on. But this is bigger than I think even _you_ guys expected, so I think it’s time for a little change of heart here, and if you think it’s still in my best interest to _keep_ not knowing shit, let me just remind you you're all in my apartment and that man on my couch is apparently an ex-victim of torture and experimentation, so whether you want it or not, _I am_ already involved, and I think you’d agree with me if I say that the worst thing to be in whatever the hell this is is? Is being kept in the dark. At least give me enough so I _understand_.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Sam braces himself for a fight, because by god enough is eno —

 

“ _Finally_ he asks,” Stark says, breaking tension in the room.

 

“What.”

 

“We were thinking about it,” Steve admits, a little uncomfortably. “Telling you, I mean.”

 

“Were you really,” Sam drawls.

 

“You’re involved. We can see that,” Steve says.

 

“Sam,” Natasha says, and when he makes eye contact she gives him a small, rueful smile. “You can’t listen if you’re all the way over there. Grab one of those chairs and come here. You’re tired.”

 

“Here,” Clint says, pushing a donut into his hands when Sam drags the island chair between Clint and Tony. “Bet you haven’t eaten.”

 

“Look, I’m sorry for snapping,” Sam says gruffly, the beginnings of discomfort taking root in his chest. “I just — ”

 

“No, we understand,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You’ve been — amazing, really, but you’ve also been moving in the dark all this time. It’s — I remember how that feels.” He sobers then, an undecipherable look flitting in his eyes for a quick beat before he shakes his head. “Sorry,” Steve says.

 

“Let’s start from the beginning then,” Tony says, typing something on Sam’s laptop. He clears his throat and turns it around so the screen is facing all of them.

 

It’s a picture of the man with a cowl over his face. He’s wearing a red-and-blue skin tight outfit, staring out on the screen with a half smile, a shield of the same color scheme grasped on one hand and the other up on a sharp salute. In huge block letters, it read: “CAP SALUTES YOU FOR BUYING WAR BONDS” and in smaller, thinner font below it reads “EVERY BOND YOU BUY IS A BULLET IN THE BARREL OF YOUR BEST GUY’S GUN”.

 

Clint grins, the first sign of amusement since Sam got here.

 

Steve groans.

 

Tony’s eyes gleam. “What do you know about Captain America?”

 

 

“What do you know about Captain America?”

 

Sam blinks. “Comics or real thing?”

 

“Both.”

 

“For the real thing. Uh, nothing much,” Sam said, wracking his brain. “The comics have a huge following, but I haven’t really read it. For the real Capta — uh —  wait, my dad talked to me about this. Captain America was a mascot of the army back in WWII? Used to up morale and sell war bonds. The guy who played him got it in his head that he _was_ Captain America, used his celebrity status to push his way into an operation, and got himself killed.”

 

“Wrong. All a cover,” Stark announces. “Captain America singlehandedly saved that operation, rescued hundreds of prisoners, and then went on to work in secret with a team he trusts, destroying H.Y.D.R.A. bases around the world. He had a huge influence in turning the tide of war.”

 

“More secrets,” Sam mutters. He frowns. “But why fake his death? I’d assume the higher ups would _want_ the whole world to know about him. At the very least, it would definitely boost the people’s morale. And it’s much better than a poster like this...”

 

“Anonymity helped him and his team move,” Natasha shrugs. “You can’t do your work if the whole world has their eyes on you.”

 

“So, what does this guy have to do with any of this?”

 

“You know what he looks like under that cowl?” Clint asks, propping his chin in his hands.

 

“No?” Sam takes the proffered laptop and peers closer to the picture. “The hideous cowl is sort of a distraction.”

 

“It _was_ hideous,” Steve says, something odd and weary in his voice. “The whole get up was hideous.”

 

Stark starts ticking off fingers. “He was blonde, paler than white bread  — ”

 

“Uh,” Sam starts scrolling through the images. Every single one had his face covered. “I don’t think he ever took it off? There’s no pictures. What even is his real name? I can’t — “

 

“ — shoulder to hip ratio of a Dorito chip, the face of a greek god — ”

 

Sam stops.

 

He turns so hard to Steve he almost gets whiplash.

 

“ _You?_ ” Sam demanded.

 

“Yeah, me,” Steve says. For his part, he seemed appropriately abashed, like an old man forcibly reminded of his teenage rebellion full of punching Hitler in the face two hundred times in spandex.

 

“You don’t see the resemblance of the gluts?” Natasha said, and she raises her phone, where another poster is on display. This one is a sideview of Captain America — _Steve Rogers —_ from the thighs up, saluting with the bald eagle as the background. It’s truly an impressive sight. And, yeah, Sam _can_ see the resemblance but —

 

“You have to be around 70 years old. Maybe older!”

 

“Uh, about that,” Steve says. “So there’s a superserum —”

 

“Superserum,” Sam says weakly.

 

“Increased strength, agility, endurance, speed, healing, and a whole lot more that enabled freezing in suspended animation for seven decades,” Clint ticks off his fingers.

 

“And that’s in the comics? For real? Is _everything_ in the comics is real?”

 

Tony snorts. “How I wish, but no,” “It’s just the origins, team members, up to the time Captain America's hero complex got the better of him and he let his plane crash into the Atlantic. The author was a veteran of the 107th, said he based his main character on someone he idolizes.”

 

“It was Jim Morita. One of my squad. He died a year ago,” Steve says, a wistful note to his voice. “He was always saying he’s gonna write about all the crazy stuff we got into if the war doesn’t get him first. Said it was cheaper than therapy and alcohol.” A small, sad smile flits over his face for a heartbeat. “Never thought it’d be like this.”

 

“He was creative enough to mix the truth with outrageous fiction,” Stark says, “Good enough that I have it on good authority that even some of the higher ups after the war were debating what’s true and what’s not, and whether they should arrest your friend. Frankly? I would give anything for, like, a space dragon to be what we’re fighting against but unfortunately it’s not real.” He presses a key, and the screen changes, showing a black and red skull with tentacles spreading out from its mouth. “H.Y.D.R.A, though?” Stark continues, “H.Y.D.R.A. is totally real.”

 

“And apparently still alive,” Steve says grimly.

 

“Evil organization embodying everything Captain America stands against,” Clint says helpfully.

 

“Why do _they_ have to be the one that’s real?” Sam demands.

 

“Cockroaches,” Stark says, bitter.

 

“So, okay,” Sam leans over, taking the laptop when it’s offered back to him.  “Let me get this straight: H.Y.D.R.A is alive and kicking,” Sam says. There’s a bunch of newly downloaded comics, and he randomly opens one as he gets his thought process in order. One panel depicts a H.Y.D.R.A goon strapping down someone on a table for some old-fashioned lobotomy, although in comics it’s just called ‘torture’, because it somehow sounds better. Sam agrees with Tony. The space dragon would have been ten times better. He continues, “And they’ve infiltrated your agency,” he gestures to Steve, Natasha, and Clint, “and your company,” he points to Stark, “so you have to stop them”.

 

“On our side it’s human trafficking and illegal mining,” Natasha says quietly. “We followed the trail to an abandoned bunker in Jersey, connected the dots,” she looked at Tony then, “and somehow ended up in your research facility, Stark.”

 

“And there we discovered _why_ they’re suddenly so keen on trafficking and mining,” Steve says. “Stane’s a big part of it.”

 

“Human experimentation and nuclear weapons,” Tony says bitterly. “You can add Ross in there too.”

 

Sam stares at him. “You said Colonel Rhodes was on his tail. Does he know?”

 

“Already told him,” Tony says, holding up a StarkPhone. “But we can’t act. Not yet.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because everything is co-signed by some unknown higher up in SHIELD,” Clint says. “Name redacted in every freaking document we can find.”

 

“Cut off one head, another takes its place,” Natasha murmurs. “But the hydra in mythology had one immortal head.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “And that’s exactly what we have to target.”

  


—-

 

Things start going bad from there. Or, well, worse. Technically.

 

It starts with Natasha’s phone, the quiet ringing breaking the pensive silence. It’s followed a second later by Steve’s, then Clint’s, then Tony’s, who’s only difference is that it’s a text message.

 

“Not good,” Tony mutters.

 

Clint immediately moves to the far wall, back to them, speaking in a tone too low too hear. Natasha stays where she is, but when she answers it’s in Russian, in a borderline cold tone, fast and biting and clipped.

 

Tony just reads, a neutral expression on his face, before sending out a too-short reply that takes him too long to type.

 

Steve lets it ring longer than the others, lips pressed together tight, the muscle on his jaw visibly ticking.

 

Natasha finishes with hers first. She looks at all of them.

 

“We got trouble.”

 

——

 

The unanimous agreement is that they will all go and check this out while they pursue their other agenda: that is to say, finding how deep H.Y.D.R.A is in S.H.I.E.L.D. and figuring out who the traitor is.

 

They didn't discusse it deeper in front of him, and Sam can — he can grudgingly respect that, because he’s gotten his explanation for the things that involves him. This whole thing is a completely different matter, he knows, but still…the whole thing _reeks_ of something bad, and for all that their world is bizarre to Sam, he’s come to consider them as —- well, very, very, casual and secretive friends, however brief he’s known them. He really, really can’t let it go without at least letting them know what he feels.

 

“We pretend everything’s normal, okay, because if we don’t then they’re gonna start noticing,” Tony is saying. “And  as Romanov said: when people start noticing, it’s hard to _move.”_

 

“You guys know this could be a trap, right?” Sam points out. “Like I feel that you know, but for the purpose of emphasis I say: this _could_ be a trap.”

 

“Could be,” Natasha agrees. “But it’s trouble. And a lot of people will be affected if we don’t act.”

 

Sam deflates at that. “I get that, but it’s — you guys probably have bounties from the traitor half of your agency. Like, you, Stark,” Sam addresses the tech genius. “What will they say if whoever the traitor is sees you alive?”

 

Tony smiles grimly. “I’m hoping they’ll get really mad and they’ll make a mistake. Can’t exactly take me out in broad daylight.”

 

“You’re all getting called at the _same time_. You don’t think that’s weird at all?”

 

“It _could_ be the most obvious trap in the universe, yeah,” Clint agrees. “But I also got a feeling that if it is, then it went tits up.”

 

“They need us now. They can’t kill us. We’re not expendable,” Stark says. A pause, his eyes darkening. “Yet.”

 

“I told them to destroy it,” Steve says, anger bleeding into his tone. He’s been the quietest since they received the news, “I _told_ them that the minute I woke up.”

 

“What can possibly warrant _all_ of you to be there?”

 

“Aliens,” Natasha says blandly, hitching up her bag.

  


——

 

“We’ll get Dr. Banner when this whole thing blows over,” Steve promises a few minutes later, when they were finally ready to leave. “Hopefully sooner rather than later.” He looks weary and apologetic. “I’m sorry, Sam. I swear, when this is all over you’ll never see — ”

 

“Woah, hey, hold up,” Sam says, “Looking over injured people is kind of my thing, yeah?”

 

If anything, Steve’s face falls even further. “I know you have that family trip tomorrow you’ve been looking forward to and with everything that’s going down you’ll have to — ”

 

“Okay, putting aside the fact that you somehow creepily know about that — ”

 

“Natasha,” Steve points out.

 

“— right,” Sam says, after a pause because that, yeah, that makes sense. He presses on, though, and says, “My siblings were cool with it. They know medical school is erratic as hell and I can’t just leave if something like this comes up. Or if I get exhausted from overwork.”

 

The corner of Steve’s lips twitches, and for a moment a glimmer of humor peeks through the weariness. “Something like this? Is that how you phrased it?”

 

“I told them I had a very unstable patient,” Sam retorts, though he’s smiling as he elbows Steve to the side. “Stop judging my lies. Technically he _is_ one, you know,” Sam nods to Bruce Banner’s prone form. “My patient, I mean.”

 

At that, Steve sobers. “No, he’s not. In fact, everything here isn’t yours to deal with. You’re not even supposed to be dragged into this. If you hadn’t met me — ”

 

“Circumstances could be better,” Sam agrees, a little slowly, and when he speaks again it’s with all the honest sincerity he can muster, “but I don’t — I don’t regret meeting you, what the hell, man. You guys are crazier than a box of cats, but I wouldn’t mind seeing your type of crazy again when all this blows over, yeah? Just, like, in less life-and-death situations, yeah?”

 

Steve’s face had gotten lighter as Sam spoke, a small smile peeking at the corners. When Sam finishes speaking, Steve’s only answer is a very soft, “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind it, too.”

 

Steve holds out a hand. “Until next time, Sam.”

 

“Until next time,” Sam says, shaking his hand. He quickly adds, only half-joking, “Don’t punch Stark.”

 

At that, Steve gives a modest smile that still somehow manages to be a little vicious. “No promises.”

 

When Steve leaves to join Stark and Barton, disappearing through the door, there’s a deliberate fall of a boot behind him, and Sam turns to see Natasha, clad in armor not unlike the one Steve’s wearing now, sleek and black, and on her outstretched hand is a phone.

 

Natasha smiles wryly. “You have a habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Wilson. Here, “ She hands him the device. “Temporary loan, from us to you. It syncs you straight to our channel, so press any button and say what you need to say. I hope you never have to use it but,” She tilts her head, expression serious, “Just in case.”

 

Sam takes it with a nod of thanks and examines the phone. He raises his eyebrows. “This is a Nokia.”

 

“Very hardy,” Natasha nods, a spark of amusement in eyes. “Hardier than StarkPhone, I hear.”

 

Sam snorts. “This is anti-climactic. I was expecting another coin. Maybe one that shoots fire this time.”

 

“Can’t,” Natasha says blandly, definitely confirming Sam’s suspicions that she _totally_ dropped that coin on purpose. “I’m gonna use it on Stark.”

 

Sam smiles despite himself. “Be nice. The man’s a little stressed.”

 

“He should have thought of that before going to you.”

 

Sam pauses, because Natasha in a poker face means he really can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “… should I be worried?”

 

Natasha smiles. “Nope.”

 

—-

 

Bruce Banner wakes up twelve hours later with a muffled, pained groan. The sound interrupts Sam’s binge-reading of seventy years worth of Captain America comics, where he’s acquainted himself with everything from gun-wielding raccoons to tentacle aliens to KKK getting their asses whipped by a super soldier in spandex. Jim Morita’s imagination is frankly astonishing — and the fact that Sam can’t tell what’s true and what’s not after everything that’s happened to him is a little bit terrifying — but even the author himself didn’t see Captain America rising from the ice seventy years after crashing his plane.

 

Which says everything about Sam’s situation, really.

 

“Hey,” Sam says softly, peeling himself away from the island chair. He goes over to Bruce and crouches down, cautiously placing a hand on a bare shoulder. “Welcome back.”

 

Banner blinks fuzzily, eyes landing on the IV on his right hand. His brow furrows.

 

Sam follows his gaze. “Fluid and all kinds of nutrients. Double line. You don’t wanna know how many you’ve used. You burn straight through them like they’re nothing.”

 

“How long?” Banner croaks.

 

“Twelve hours, give or take,” Sam says. He goes to get the glass of water from the coffee table. When he turns back, Bruce is trying to get off the couch.

 

“Woah, hey!” Sam protests, and he presses Banner back down. “I said twelve hours, not twelve days! No need for that.” There’s a bright-pink Minnie Mouse straw inside the cup, complete with the curling mouse ears and the ribbon. It’s usually reserved for Sam’s youngest niece, who guards it with the zeal of a rabid Disney kid and who pinky promised him that he’ll never let anyone except her use it _ever_ , but he thinks the circumstances right now can be an exception.

 

Sam points to the straw. “If you’re thirsty, this will work just fine, man. Trust me when I say that it is really not a good idea for you leave the couch.”

 

“I — ” Banner stops, blinking at the cartoon straw, before he sighs and slumps back down, turning his head gingerly to face Sam. “Okay, I — thank you,” he says, reaching for the cup.

 

When he’s done and Sam has put away the glass, Banner asks, “Has it really been only 12 hours?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “It’s doing that superhealing stuff that Steve does, but it’s still got a ways to go. Your back was wrecked, Dr. Banner.”

 

“Bruce.” And when Sam looks at him in confusion, Banner gives a tired shrug. “Figures you deserve at least a first name business. This isn’t exactly an ideal meeting.”

 

Sam snorts. “This whole situation is not ideal in anyway at all, but you’re alive, so I will take that as a blessing.” He dips his head in acknowledgement and says, “And the name’s Sam Wilson.”

 

“I know,” Bruce says, and gives a small smile. “They told me about you.” He pauses. “Well, they yelled _around_ me about you. I was unconscious for some parts.”

 

What. “ _Did_ they now,” Sam drawls. “I hope it helped.”

 

Bruce laughs weakly. “I don’t know if it did, but I’m healing better than I thought,” He tries to burrow even deeper onto the couch, turns his head a tad to look at Sam, and lightly says, “Must be the improved bedside manner. Ten times better than a cage.”

 

Bruce doesn't miss the stricken look on Sam’s face, and smiles apologetically. “Sorry, gallows humor,” he asks, and he changes track then, eyes flitting around the room. “Where’s everyone?”

 

“There was a situation,” Sam tells Bruce, and he give the gist of what happened before he woke up. “They say they’ll be back after, but here,” he hands over a sleek, black StarkPhone. Bruce takes it. “I got my own. This one they said I should give it to you if you want to talk to them. It’s encrypted, done by Stark himself.”

 

Bruce doesn’t speak, turning the phone over and over. He powers it on, the screen bathing his face in bright light.

 

Sam takes the moment to observe. Bruce Banner’s face is tired yet unreadable. He looks like a teacher or a doctor, like someone Sam might have once passed in the hospital. Hell, if Sam envisions him sans the injuries and puts him in a polo shirt, he’d look right at home in front of a cadaver, walking a group of starstruck medical students through their first dissection.

 

He sure as hell didn’t deserve to be imprisoned, tortured, and experimented like he was one.

 

The others are back in their home base —- wherever that is —- and working two overlapping objectives right in the middle of an organization apparently filled to the brim with traitors, most of whom no doubt had a hand in Bruce’s current predicament.

 

Frankly, Sam really _really_ wants Banner as far away from them as possible, at least until all this over.

 

“You can stay here, you know, if you want,” Sam offers tentatively. “As long as you need. Usually I’m not at home but —- yeah, you can stay as long as you like. Or even until all this is done.”

 

Bruce gives him a small smile. “Thank you. I’ll, uh,” he says, closing his eyes. He puts the phone down on the floor. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“You do that,” Sam says. “I’m offering a lumpy couch, a super soft blanket, and edible food as opposed to … everything shitty out there. As long as you need, man.”

 

“The people who did this to me. Are they —  are they still out there?” Bruce asks, his eyes peeking open to peer up at Sam.

 

Sam pauses. “Yeah, but the others told me they'll take care of it.”

“I see,” Bruce murmurs, a far away look entering his eyes before it closes. The other man take measured breaths, the hand that’s dangling to the floor clenching and unclenching. Sam can almost see the thoughts churning in his head. He wants to plead; he wants to dissuade him, but —

 

“Think you can handle some real food?” Sam asks instead.

 

Bruce opens his eyes, gives him a grateful smile. “Yeah. Yeah, food.”

 

—-

 

His gut feeling is proven sound when Sam moves to go out of his room a few hours later for a bathroom break — he gave Banner as much privacy as he can afford in the tiny space of his apartment, putting him up with spare clothes, a towel, and even a blanket, only checking on him occasionally — only to find his visitor in front of his bedroom door, mid-knock, and looking nothing like someone who’s going to stay for a couple of nights.

 

“Sam,” Bruce says.

 

“You’re going to them.”

 

Bruce nods. He gives Sam a small genuine smile. “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

 

“You shouldn’t — you’re still not fit to — _why_?” Sam asks, a little helplessly, because he knows that no argument, however logical, is gonna stop someone who’s already dead set on doing something. He already knows it’s futile: he’s changed the bandages himself a couple of hours prior, and the wounds were already better. Just like Steve’s had the first time he met Sam. That’s like a signal for perfect health for Sam’s new friends. God.

 

For a beat, Banner is thoughtfully silent, looking steadily at Sam like he’s weighing whether to tell the truth or not.

 

“The first few months after the accident, when I was imprisoned and they wanted Hulk, I couldn’t stop them ,” Bruce starts saying quietly. “It manifested with a heartbeat of 200 or more, so whenever they wanted me to — and when I _refused_ — they just… induced the tachycardia. And I — I couldn’t stop it. They can’t do it through drugs, so they did it through fear and anger, grief and pain, because at the end it’s just a response to stimuli, right, and that was the best stimuli they found.” He stares at Sam, and for a brief second he almost swears the man’s eyes are tinged with green. “At least, they did this until I couldn’t take it anymore. It took a long time, but one day I did it. I stopped responding. They couldn’t get the Hulk out of me after that.”

 

“How?”

 

Bruce presses a hand to his face. “I’d like to say it was a very thorough background in meditation thanks to

India — and it _was_ very helpful, but,” He smiles humorlessly, “Mostly it was a kind of spite. I couldn’t be free, so I took away what they wanted, and if in their attempts they kill me, I remember thinking that at least the secret dies with me.”

 

Sam wishes he doesn’t get it. “But it’s not over.”

 

Bruce tilts his head in agreement. “It’s not over, and it’s bigger than I thought.” The hand with the Starkphone clenches tighter. “They’re still out there, and Tony and the others are trying to stop them. I have to help. They _need_ my help.”

 

“Gamma radiations,” Sam says, keenly aware more than ever that this rumpled man in front of him is a titan in the scientific world.

 

“Yes.” A pause. “And then some.”

 

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

“That’s okay.” Bruce says, smiling slightly. “I’d be very worried if you didn’t.”

  
  
  


—

  
  


“Sam! Are you really going?”

 

“Hey, sis,” Sam says. It’s a few hours later, and he’s now on the floor, cradling the phone to his chest and packing the last of his clothes in place. “Sorry, I couldn’t make the first day.”

 

He hadn’t slept after Bruce left, too wired from everything. He’d read the comics instead, and by time he was done with more than half the issues it was already time to prepare for the family trip they’d planned weeks ago. There was something surreal and disconcerting about swinging from talks about covert terrorism to ones about hipster coffee shops.

 

“Stop apologizing!” Sarah Wilson scolds, jolting him out of his thoughts. “You weren’t feeling well yesterday, right? You know, should really stop overworking yourself. Are you really sure you can go? We’d understand if you can’t, seriously.”

 

“Nah, I’m good. And I miss the kids,” Sam says, feeling a little guilty about that lie. But it’s not like he’ll back out for any reason. He doesn’t _want_ to. He misses his sister. He misses _all_ of them, actually, especially in light of all the things that have happened.

 

But that’s not really something he wants to share right now (or ever), so he just teasingly adds, “Only the kids, though. Not you.”

 

“Brat,” Sarah says affectionally. “But, really, health comes first, as you’ve been saying since you came out of mom’s uterus.”

 

“Seriously, Sarah, I’m fine,” Sam says, he moves to his backpack, starts plucking out anything he’s not gonna need for the trip. It’s going to be his carry on, and unlike his M1 years  he’s definitely not gonna waste space on books he _knows_ he’s not gonna read. “I’m on my way to the station. I’ll sleep on the way.”

 

“Sleep in the apartment, too,” Sarah says sternly. “Don’t go piggybacking the kids the minute you get here, okay? You’ll break your old back.”

 

“Who’s calling who old?? I’m eight years younger than you!”

 

“Who here regularly exercises everyday?”

 

“Hey! I’m not, like, fight weight anymore but I’m fit, excuse you!”

 

“Do you get eight hours of sleep and the adulation of a thousand people every night?”

 

“… Adulation your _face_ ,” Sam says, and it’s ridiculous how he gets an urge to stick out his tongue. He reaches into the bag’s front pocket, unearthing a half-empty pack of gum, empty pens, … and a very familiar coin and knife.

 

“Whatever you say, old man,” Sarah is laughing. “Get hear nice and safe, yeah? Gideon says he’s gonna beat you in the Favorite Wilson Contest at this rate.”

 

He stares at the two objects for a beat, before he shakes his head, picks off  — non-flammable, non-electrifying — coins, and places them back, keeping the knife and the coin separated from the rest of his stuff. Those he’ll put in his jacket, easily within reach.

 

“Sam? Oh, my god. Are you _pouting?”_

 

 _Just in case_.

 

“That’s also completely unfair, Sarah, and you know it,” Sam argues, pushing away the uneasy feeling on his mind.

 

“How so?”

 

“Two of those kids are his!”

 

“All is fair in love and gullible children, Sam,” Sarah says serenely, but there’s a warm smile evident in her voice. “Now, _come on_ and get your nerdy ass here. We got only two days left. That’s hardly any time to explore New York City.”

 

—

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

  


So Sam went to New York unable to shake the bad feeling that _something_ was about to go down. This meant that what sleep he managed to snatch on the train was fitful at best, and his waking moments were spent alternating between being hyperaware of his surroundings to reassuring himself that the cellphone Natasha gave him is firmly inside his jacket pocket, together with the knife and the coin. He knows it’s unreasonable, but he feels slightly more protected and vulnerable knowing they’re on his person.

 

Still, the bad feeling persisted from the taxi to the train ride and up to the moment Sam emerged from the New York subway station, which was completely annoying because everything else had looked so _normal_. Hell, New York City weather was even _nice_ , the kind of day where the sun was just the right kind of warm, the breeze wasn’t the asshole kind that tries to blast your features off your face, and both New York taxi drivers and New York pigeons didn’t shit on your existence as you walk (metaphorically and figuratively, respectively). It was almost like the the universe was _mocking_ his worry.

 

The feeling abated — somewhat — when he sees his beaming sister on the station. She tells him their brother’s holding the fort while she sends Sam to her apartment for a quick nap, and when he woke up from his enforced sleep to be greeted by four kids squealing in four different decibels and dog piling him on the bed, he tries to _make_ it go away completely. It’s been a long time since he’s seen any of his family, and it wouldn’t be fair if he mars this vacation with worries over something that (hopefully) won’t happen. It isn’t easy — he’s acutely aware of the worry, a leaden weight — but he manages enough to really enjoy himself all throughout most of the day. He loudly protests but secretly loves his brother’s backbreaking hug and his sister’s noogie, he nerds out with them during the trip to the Museum of Natural History to see the new exhibition about space, he gets into a food coma with the rest of his family when they eat lunch in a really hipster and delicious Italian place somewhere on the West Side, and when they emerge from the afternoon show of _Wicked,_ he’s in a completely happy state of mind that the bad feeling seems almost imaginary. He’s not even mad that his nephew’s been cheerfully blaring ‘Defying Gravity’ in his ears for the past twenty minutes, unconsciously suffocating Sam when he tries to hit the high notes.

 

It’s going to be a long time before he sees any of them again. He’s going to miss them a lot, and in a fit of ridiculous affection, he says this so out loud.

 

“You utter sap,” Gideon Wilson replies blandly, and Sam would believe that if his older brother’s hair isn’t up in some kind of half-helicopter/half-blob hairstyle, courtesy of the two little girls bouncing away their sugar high in front of them. He’s been proudly wearing it since lunch. Even through the show.

 

“What, I can’t express how much I love my favoritest kiddies in the whole world?” Sam asks indignantly, evading Gideon’s kick from the side. His own kick smacks straight to his brother’s calf, though, making the bigger man squawk.

Sam grins, and he turns to little Eli in his arms, his sister’s son in every way except he’s less violent and way more adorable, and tells him: “Tell you’re uncle he’s being a meanie, Eli.”

 

Gideon huffs. “Tell your uncle _he’s_ a meanie, Eli!”

 

The kid actually looks torn. “I can’t,” Eli says, with all the solemnity of a five-year old. His big brown eyes move from Sam to Gideon before he says, “I love you both,” and, honestly, Sam’s heart just _melts_.

 

“Yeah, okay, fair enough, kid. You got me,” Sam says gruffly, amidst Gideon’s booming laughter.

 

Eli just beams at him,  and Sam groans, “Stop! You’re gonna give me diabetes!”

 

A little bit in front of them, Sarah Wilson laughs and moves to match their pace, keeping to Sam’s other side. “Sweetie, you are gonna go _places_ ,” she says, poking Eli on the nose and eliciting a wave of giggles.

 

“Uncle Sam?” Jim asks Sam. He’s the eldest of the four at nine years old, walking steadily alongside his mother. “What’s a diabetes?”

 

“Well, it’s what you can get when you have too much sugar in your body,” Sam says, “Until your body can’t handle it anymore and it starts getting sick.”

 

“Oh,” Jim says. There’s a thoughtful beat of silence, before: “Uncle said you once sat on an anthill when you were Misty an’ Jodi’s age and cried really hard because the ants tried to eat through your shorts so you removed them and ran around naked while grandma tried to catch you. Did you have diabetes and the ants smelled it off you?”

 

Sam swivels to stare at Gideon, who set off in another bout of laughter, and says, “When I get kids, I’m gonna tell them about that time with the twelve boxes of cookies, three cartons of milk, grandma’s sofa, and your lactose-intolerant … butt.”

 

Eli claps his hands. “I wanna hear! I wanna hear!!”

 

Gideon went from laughing to scandalized in two seconds. “You wouldn’t!”

 

His sister, however, seemed to have latched onto something different. “ _Is there_ a family in the horizon, Sammy?” Sarah asks, eyes gleaming. “Did you find a baby in your doorstep? Did your mother hen instincts finally overwhelm your workaholic tendencies?” To Gideon, she says: “Do you remember? Back when he was little?”

 

Gideon gladly plays along in an effort to derail the conversation about his lactose intolerance, the _traitor_. “Yeah, I do. Adopted every new kid on the block, every new neighbor, every stray cat and dog and even a random parakeet,” Gideon ticks off his fingers. “Mom swears she had like fifty kids instead of three, and she’d only know when she’s making breakfast.” Gideon wiggles his eyebrows, grinning. “So how about it, little brother? Adopted any babies lately?”

 

“I adopted _your face_ ,” Sam tells him sweetly.

 

And before Gideon can reply, twin squeals of “A _baby?!”_ cut through the air, and a second later Sam almost gets bowled over by two little girls with (apparently) supersonic hearing.

 

“Oh my gosh!” Misty Wilson says, grinning brightly, wrapping skinny arms around him and jumping up and down. “Are we gonna get a baby cousin?!”

 

“I want a baby girl cousin! I want a baby girl cousin!” Jodi Wilson announces, clutching Sam’s available hand and tugging insistently.

 

Gideon scoops Misty up just as her eyes are starting to transition to Puppy Dog. “Jodie’s not enough for you, honey?”

 

“The more, the merrier!” Misty declares. She pauses. Then: “ _Dad,”_ she breathes, eyes shining like the stars and its full power zeroing in on her father, “What if _you_ and _mom_ — ”

 

“God help me,” Gideon says.

 

Sam spots an ice-cream truck a fair ways up ahead. It’s pastel pink and white, reflecting the rays of the sun, the bright-colored board above the vehicle proudly proclaiming “STAN’S DELICIOUS DESSERTS’. There’s a whole lot of people milling about with the truck’s signature cheerfully designed cones and cups, which Sam thinks speaks for the quality, so he has no qualms when he yells, a little desperately, “WHO WANTS SOME ICE SCREAM?”

 

And it works. There’s a chorus of “ICE CREAM!” and in a stampede of pink and green the two six-year olds hurtle straight for the wiry old man, who had just finished serving a group of ten. Upon spotting the running kids, he genuinely looks like he doesn’t know whether to be delighted or terrified.

 

“Oh, wow,” Jim says, impressed. “Look at them go.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Gideon says, before going after them in a full sprint, mainly because the two little girls were now pointing to what looks like every ice cream on the menu, the cookies on display, and all seven milkshakes displayed out front.

 

“Stan’s Desserts! I heard about this place,” Sarah exclaims, brightening. She tugs Jim with her. “Come on! I’ll buy you the avocado ice cream! I heard it was _divine.”_

 

Sam jostles Eli. “What say you, sport? Want some ice cream?” he asks, grinning when all Eli does is scrunch up his nose before throwing his arms around Sam’s neck and saying a very resolute declaration of ‘Later!', snuggling down like he’s going to hibernate ’til dinner.

 

He goes after the rest of his family then, but Sam’s barely crossed half the distance when suddenly blue light splits the sky. It was unnaturally bright and emitting a loud, low humming that seems to vibrate into his very bones. He squints. It was dead center to where he’s facing, somewhere far away from where they were, and projects straight up to a hole in the clouds. Other people have noticed it as well, and voices break out in hushed mutterings.

 

“… wow, wonder what he’s up to now…”

 

“… cool project…. gonna come out…”

 

“… are you serious …”

 

Sam distantly hears other snippets of conversation — _it’s a new product, it’s a weapon, I bet it’s Stark up to his old shenanigans —_ but as his keen eyes see multiple _somethings_ streak out like bullets from the hole created by the light — a hole, he realizes, that is steadily getting _bigger_ — his brain latches on a memory and pushes it to the front.

 

 _“Aliens,” Natasha says blandly_.

 

The bright red fire of an explosion lights up the sky underneath the hole, and Sam suddenly knows with a certainty that whatever the fuck is up there is going to prove that, contrary to what he really hoped, his hunch was been right all along.

 

"Uncle Sam?" Eli asks, fear threading his voice. His arms have tightened around Sam, probably sensing his growing distress.

 

 _Cover,_ Sam thinks, fighting past the growing sense of panic. He places a gentle hand on his nephew’s head. _We have to get cover._ He looks back at the ice cream truck. They’re now in a tiny little group in front of the vehicle and completely unaware of this new development right behind the tiny little ice cream store. Stan has even come down to the outside, carrying a board with a copy of the menu and enthusiastically talking to his enraptured audience.

 

“Sarah! Gideon!” Sam says, his voice growing in volume, his quick steps morphing into a run.

 

At his name, Gideon glances up, and his smile drops at whatever he sees on Sam’s face.

 

It happens in the space of a heartbeat, but if Sam were to recall that moment he swears he sees every fucking thing that occurred down to the most mundane details: the furrow appearing on Gideon’s forehead, his mouth shaping the beginning of Sam’s own name, the twist of his sister’s neck as she turns to look back at him, and the deafening sound of crushed metal and breaking glass as something _smashes_ into the ice cream truck from the side, missing the owner and Sam’s family by fucking _inches,_ holy _fucking shit_.

 

_Crash!_

 

The collision goes through the wall of Central Park in an explosion of brick and smoke so thick Sam takes a step back, coughing out, his eyes tearing, but it was drowned by an eruption of screams as suddenly all _hell_ breaks loose. There are blasts of the same blue light shooting through the air, smashing and destroying buildings, post lamps, and trees; the ground shakes from the resulting rain of fire and debris, and up in the sky dark shapes are streaking and swerving, carrying large, humanoid beings with gleaming red eyes. In their hands are the plated, strange-looking guns spitting out the otherworldly light in a continuous deadly stream. An inhuman screech rips perilously close —

 

“SAM, DUCK!” Gideon screams.

 

Sam _dives_ to the ground, curling around Eli, a half-second before one of the dark shapes _swoops_ past where Sam’s head had been, so close he feels the heat of it at the back of his neck. Half-blind and gasping, he scrambles up to his feet, looking wildly to where he last saw his family, but they’ve disappeared, swallowed by the stampede of people going in wildly different directions. Even now the crowd’s growing thicker and thicker and _wilder_. Eli is crying in his arms, crying himself hoarse as they’re pressed in from different directions and forced to go with the flow. He spins around, trying to glimpse Gideon’s massive frame or Sarah’s halo of hair. Where — where —

 

Someone _slams_ their elbow into Sam’s shoulderblade as they tried to shove past him, swearing obscenities in his ear, and pain erupts from the spot, fiery and sharp. His hand spasms, and his grip on Eli slips. Eli wails as he’s almost separated from Sam, carried away by the crowd, and there’s a horrifying moment when they’re connected only by Eli’s arms around Sam’s neck, his nephew dangling and _pulled_ by the teeming, seething stampede —

 

— And then there’s another fucking _shove,_ and Sam yells in rage and fear as he loses his balance and Eli is _ripped_ from his arms by the tide of people, falling and falling and —

 

_No!_

 

— and then tanned, weathered hands deftly pluck the little boy practically from the air. At the same time, someone grabs the back of his jacket and _heaves_ him upright, all while keeping with the flow of the crowd.

 

“You alright, son?” Eli’s rescuer asks, an old man in a pink-and-white striped shirt, and — wait a minute —

 

“Ice Cream Man?” Sam gasps, and Stan the Ice Cream Man gives him a grin. He’s on Sam’s side, a hand firmly wrapping around Sam’s arm and helping him keep pace while he regains his bearings. His other arm is carrying Eli, who’s still crying, but at least he’s crying while stuck to the old man like a suffocating barnacle, safe and whole and _not_ squished like a pancake.

 

Sam could _kiss_ Stan the Ice Cream Man.

 

“Sam,” And it was Gideon, Gideon who pulled him upright, Gideon now on his other side, and Sam turns to him, taking in the gash on older brother’s forehead, the little girls he’s carrying tight in his arms, twin wails no doubt making his eardrums shake, and Sam moves to help carry one when he notices —

 

“Where’s Sarah?” He demands.

 

And Gideon grimly answers, “I don’t know.”

 

— _fuck_.

 

“Jim got separated from us,” Gideon explains rapidly. “Sarah ran after him, and then one of those — things — dropped a damn _tree_ between her and me.”

 

 _“Everyone get off the streets!_ ” Someone bellows. “ _Get off the streets!_ ”

 

The siblings share a look, and an understanding falls between the two of them in the space of a millisecond. It was ridiculous and it was borderline _stupid_ and foolhardy and the chances of finding her was so, so slim in this mess but —

 

“Go,” Gideon says, his arms tightening around his little girls. He wants to be the one to go, it’s written all over his face, but he knows perfectly well who between the two of them stands the best chance of finding their sister. Sam’s fast and agile, traits that his brother’s massive frame has sacrificed for strength, and it was what they needed now, if they want to pluck their sister out of this mess without running into trouble.

 

(Sam also knows who has two children and who does not. Like hell will he let his brother do what he’s going to do.)

 

“We’ll take the kids,” Gideon says. “Meet up when this is all over, yeah?”

 

Sam nods, and after Gideon tells him the last place he’s seen their sister, he turns to Stan the Ice Cream Man, and says, “Thank you!”

 

“No problem,” the old man says, if a little breathlessly, and he gives a tiny thumbs up. Already they were being swept by the crowd. “Good luck.”

 

 _“GET OFF THE STREETS!”_ Someone bellows again.

 

And so Sam goes back to the streets, pushing against the crowd, fighting his way past them and to a scene that looks straight out of an apocalyptic movie. The great wide avenue’s now reduced to a pockmarked blasted surface, fires and smoke and debris littered everywhere. There are a few stragglers like him, running in different directions, but they were all heeding the warning yell, going _away_ from the open. Sam dodges the deep cracks on the pavement, stays the hell away from burning vehicles, and moves quick and silent back to where the ice cream truck once stood. He calculates where his sister could be as he moves past it, going to where Gideon says he last saw her, and spots the tree lying almost perpendicular to the road, near the mouth of one of the streets branching off the avenue. It was the one that Gideon described to him, definitely. He chances a glance in the sky — all clear — and in the count of three he _sprints,_ moving for the fallen tree —

 

_Screech!_

 

 _—_ and just barely manages to dive for cover under its fallen branches as a group of aliens go sweeping low through the sky.

 

Too close, Sam thinks, taking a minute to calm his heart, which now seems to be settled somewhere around his ears from sheer terror. He remembers, abruptly and wildly, about the the knife and the coin and the phone. Well, calling them and saying ‘there are fucking aliens in New York, Steve!’ would be stupidly obvious at this point — Sam has no doubt that _this_ is what they were called to deal with — and with the way his hands are shaking so bad he’s probably going to electrocute _himself_ if he tries to use the coin.

 

He brings out Steve’s knife, which is small and old and, wow, on second thought, three-inches of metal against an alien invasion actually does sound fucking _stupid_ —

 

A piercing scream fills the air. 

 

— and Sam freezes. His sister. That was his sister, and Sam’s suddenly inundated with images of her trapped under a car, or injured from a blast, aliens looming over her menacingly, their weapons aiming at her forehead —

 

He picks himself off the ground and scrambles over the tree, going into the branching street where the sound was coming from. He runs past destroyed shops, swerves around a smashed van lying on its sides and —

 

“STAY BACK!!” Sarah screams.

 

“Holy mother of fucking _shit_ ,” Sam says hysterically, because it’s _worse,_ because Sarah Wilson’s not cowering on the floor, or dead or injured or screaming for help. No, his bloody sister is in the middle of the road, an upturned car behind her and an alien in front. She’s dirty and bleeding and her hair is chalk white from the dust and debris, but she’s holding her ground in front of a reptilian fucking alien and screaming in _rage_ , brandishing an umbrella on one hand like a very small David in front of an extraterrestrial Goliath on a damn _hoverboard_. The alien is advancing on her slowly, giving off an almost perplexed air at a display that’s not pants-shitting terror; and in any other universe Sam would commiserate because _what the fuck_ but right now he’s too busy breaking into a run, taking advantage of the distraction.

 

The alien finally looks like it’s had enough, and the tip of its weapon glows blue.

 

Sam’s mind goes into static, his body going on automatic as he palms the knife.

 

Sarah bares her teeth, shifts her grip on the umbrella and  —

 

“HEY, UGLY!” Sam bellows, and he throws the knife with all his strength. The alien turns at the sound of his voice, and the knife sinks into one of its eyes with a crackling squelch. At the same moment, the umbrella hits the alien’s shoulder hard. It’s shot goes wide as it topples, oozing smoke and electricity, but Sam doesn’t waste time gawking.  He goes straight for his sister, who’s scrambling towards the overturned car, collapsing on the ground to pull at something from the space left under the hood, and —

 

“Uncle Sam? Mom?” Jim asks, dazed, lips trembling, as Sarah pulls him from under the car. Sam drops to the ground to help. The boy tries to stand on his own, but he’s shaking too much and there’s a gash on his forehead that’s bleeding profusely and dripping down to his eyes, obscuring his vision.

 

“Jim!” The rage Sarah had displayed is now gone, replaced by terror and distress, tears leaking from her eyes. Between the two of them, they manage to get him upright on shaky — but _working_ , thank god — legs, after which Sarah immediately sweeps up her son in a hug, one that’s returned with vigor. Sam uses that moment to wipe the blood from Jim’s face, checking for any other injuries, and when the kid reaches out a hand for him over his mother’s shoulder he wastes no time in giving his nephew — and his sister — the tightest hug he knows.

 

But the quiet is short-lived, interrupted by a blast rips through the air and strikes the veranda of an apartment.

 

Sam looks up to see _more_ of the aliens coming from the distance, shooting everything in sight. He swears, looking around. The street’s practically deserted, what people there are all running for cover. It’s only be a matter of time before they’re noticed.

 

“Any chance you got like ten more knives with you?” Sarah asks, fear in her voice.

 

“I don’t think that’s gonna help,” Sam says faintly. _Cover,_ he thinks desperately. _We need cover._ He looks out to the street, mind racing. The buildings are an alternative, but they’d be stuck, alone, and with no means of communication for who the hell knows how long.

 

As if drawn through the haze of smoke and debris, his eyes zero in on the subway entrance a few yards away.

 

Ah.

 

“Head for that subway entrance! Go! Go! Go!” Sam shouts. He scoops Jim in his arms and together the three of them run, but they’ve barely crossed half the distance when it seems like a whole lot of the aliens were suddenly _there,_ latching on the buildings around them, falling from above to land with an earth-shaking _thud_ on the ground, smoothly coming to a stop an inch over the air on their damn hoverboards. Sam and Sarah find themselves being herded back in the middle of the street until they’re back-to-back, trying to keep all the monsters in sight, and why the _fuck_ are _five_ of them hellbent on —

 

Sam catches sight of one of aliens on the ground pulling the knife out of their dead brethren’s eye socket. It makes a rumbling sound, turning the knife over and over, until it looks up — Sam swears he feels the minute its eyes fix on _him_ — and tosses the weapon to Sam.

 

He catches it with fumbling hands.

 

The alien’s eyes gleam.

 

—  shit.

 

Its weapon gives a thrum that rattles through Sam’s teeth, and then bursts with blue light.

 

Sam and Sarah explode into motion, sprinting harder than they’ve ever thought possible, straight to the subway that now seems so far away. The air erupts in chitters, blue light shining brighter and brighter as it comes from more of their weapons — above, behind, to the side. A blast hits the ground inches from his feet, and on his shoulder Jim starts crying. _They’re playing with us,_ Sam realizes, and the anger it ignites pushes him faster, faster and faster —

 

And beside him Sarah stumbles, goes down with a cry.

 

Sam skids to a halt, but his momentum doesn't let him stop fast enough.

 

With a screech, one of the aliens latched to the buildings jump down.

 

There’s the sound of multiple weapons firing —

 

The scream that rips out of Sam is drowned as something _zips_ out from nowhere and intercepts the blaster shots before it reaches Sarah’s huddled form, letting them ping harmlessly off its surface. The thing doesn't stop: it hurtles past, ricochets off the side of a building, and is caught by a tall form running on top of a destroyed truck. The newcomer jumps, throws it straight back into the fray, and with a sound of cracking metal it embeds itself into the chest of one of the aliens.

 

At the same time, an ear-splitting roar shakes the ground, deeper and rounder and _different_ , as something huge falls from the sky and crushes the alien who had jumped, landing on the ground with a _boom_.

 

The monstrous new arrival faces their little group, its skin tinged green and larger than life, its muscles rippling as it uncurls from a half crouch. Sam helps his sister get to her feet. There’s a brief second where it looks at them, face filled with rage and teeth bared into a snarl, and Sam gets only a glimpse of eyes that look entirely too human and too _familiar_ before it gives off a deafening roar. And after that all, well - hell just breaks loose.

 

“Sam?!”

 

The cry was almost lost in the pandemonium, something Sam would have totally not heard, except the one who called his name did so in the middle of a gravity-defying jump-punch that beheaded an errant alien lunging for their little group. It’s a breath-taking sight, _except_ —

 

“I fucking knew it!!” Sam yells instead.

 

There’s a mask obscuring half his face, the uniform isn’t torn to pieces, and he has a fucking _shield,_ but Sam would know those blue eyes anywhere _._

 

“Why are you here?!” For his part, Steve Rogers is too busy looking horrified to comment on Sam’s reaction.

 

“I KNEW IT!”

 

“WHO ARE YOU?” Sarah Wilson demands.

 

Before Steve can answer, a radio piece clipped on Steve’s wrist crackles to life.

 

 _“Cap — we are in position — found Bruce — last location?”_ Clint’s voice, recognizable even through the static.

 

“Dr. Banner’s with me. We’ll be with you shortly,” Steve says, bringing his wrist up and grimacing, and in a flash Sam realizes _why_ Large, Green, and Angry looks vaguely familiar.

 

“YOU GUYS ARE THE WORST.” Sam yells, stepping closer to Steve to make sure it reaches the stupid radio. Steve jerks his wrist away from Sam with a squawk, but the damage’s done.

 

A pause. “Was that _Wilson?”_

 

“Gotta go,” Steve says hurriedly and presumably turns it off. He spins around to glare at Sam, pointing, “Later you and I are gonna _talk_.”

 

Sam waves his hands to encompass - everything. “About what?? Which one?!”

 

“HOW YOU ARE _EVERYWHERE_.” Steve looks like he’s torn between hugging Sam and punching him, which - _same -_ but instead he chooses the third road and spins, cupping his hands around mouth, and bellowing, “HULK!”

 

In the brief interval of their exchange, more aliens seemed to have been attracted to their spot. Hulk — _Bruce_ —  finishes using one of the aliens as a racket to punt the another to the sky and turns with a grunt, stalking towards them.

 

Steve has his head cocked to the side, listening intently, past the raging fires and the distant screams. “There’s more of them coming,” he says. “Hulk, I’ll hold them off while you take them back to the safe zones.”

 

“You guys are the worst,” Sam repeats, but he punches Steve’s shoulder all the same before he steps back. “Don’t die.”

 

“That’s the plan, yes,” Steve agrees, and Sam glares at him.

 

“Don’t do anything stupid! Or stupider!”

 

Steve makes a face at him. “ _You_ don’t do anything stupid.” To Hulk, he says, “After you drop them off, go back to where we were before. Stark’s bringing the party there. We’ll be waiting.”

 

“Wait,” Sarah starts to say, her breath hitching at the wide, feral grin that stretches Hulk’s face at the word ‘party’ “How — ”

 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we really _really_ have to get you guys out of here” Steve says, apologetic. He makes eye contact with Jim, whose crying had turned into awestruck silence, and gives a small smile. “Hold on tight, kid.”

 

Sam only has a second to see Hulk’s massive hands coming from both sides, and then a beat later all three of them are cradled on his palms as Hulk _jumps_ — Sarah’s question turns into a shriek, Jim is now straight up yelling, and Sam —

 

Sam, firmly ensconced in Hulk’s careful grip, maneuvers himself to see the spot where they were before. Steve’s a dot that’s rapidly getting smaller and farther. As he strains to keep him in sight, the Hulk’s jump trajectory switches to a rapid descent, and the last thing he sees is the spinning shield arcing high in the air, straight into a group of incoming aliens, their weapons emitting blue light.

 

_____

 

After the fighting, after the apparent win over an alien invasion — and they were calling it that, at least in the news channels many people managed to stream on their phones once they were able to charge — after hundreds of videos praising and lambasting the mysterious superpowered figures that seemed to be all that stood between them and extraterrestrial domination surfaced on the suddenly accessible net, after hundreds of people in various official uniforms swarmed into their little subway hideout to tell them it’s finally okay to go topside, Sam finds himself in one of the medical tents that sprouted like mushrooms across New York City. The death toll has yet to be announced, but ‘unidentified sources’ are already saying that it’s not as high as one fears thanks to these ‘extraordinary individuals who bravely fought for humanity’s future’.

 

Which is cool but kinda slides over the fact that there is a _shitload_ of injured people, Sam thinks grimly.

 

Those who were near-death and near-amputation were immediately transferred to all available hospitals, and the ones who were not were placed in beds pushed together in tents much like the one Sam found himself in. Being relatively uninjured, Sam had quickly been upgraded from patient to volunteer along with a bunch of other people. He didn’t mind at the least.  They’re terribly short-handed, still waiting for more people from the outside, and, you know, if nothing else Sam thinks he should give back a little to the universe because the way that his family is intact, uninjured, and alive after all that? It’s a fucking miracle, and Sam is only too grateful for it.

 

Well, for the most part.

 

“Littlest brother,” Sarah Wilson says sweetly, the minute they were safely ensconced in their own little back corner of a medical tent and after the head volunteer had forcibly pushed Sam to take a break. All the kids were dogpiled over their new, snoring friend, Stan the Ice Cream Man.

 

Clearly, now that the three siblings have been reunited in the aftermath of that hellish experience, there’s no specter of death over their shoulder, and therefore there’s no need to be _nice,_ all bets are off.

 

“Why,” she continues, “are you friends with a man wielding a giant shield and a green monster the size of a small house?”

 

“A _what_.” Gideon, who’s been shooting off texts to every family member he knows, stops at those words and looks up.

 

As Sarah tells Gideon what happened in low tones, his brother slowly swivels to stare at Sam with wide eyes.

 

And Sam, who knows lying is futile, blurts out the vaguest possible truth: “Patient. Unofficially. They — he was a patient. Briefly,” and what the _fuck_ he’s a better liar than this! At his sibling’s looks, he adds quickly, “Bottom line is that I helped him and they’re — he’s actually very nice? They’re actually very nice. They’re just… uh, a bit of a superhuman outlier in the normalcy scale, I guess? Actually, they have the worst sense of self-preservation ever, so it’s kind of a good thing that they’re… you know, like _that_ because they deal with stuff like this probably everyday and _why are you looking at me like that?”_

 

In the course of Sam’s bumbling explanation, Sarah’s expression had shifted from worried anger to fascination to straight-up incredulity. “Oh my god,” she says, “Did you somehow _adopt_ them?”

 

“What? _No!_ Sarah!”

 

“What the fuck,” Gideon says, and he holds up his phone to show them a shaky video of a giant green monster snatching what looks like a red-and-gold robot out of the air. He hadn’t witnessed any of the happenings firsthand aside from the aliens. “Are you talking about _this_?” He frowns, worried. “Sam!”

 

And it would have been the worst interrogation ever except suddenly there’s the sound of the tent flaps opening. That wouldn’t have been weird in and of itself, of course, but the gradual decrease in conversation definitely, definitely was.

 

Sam turns, and the first newcomer he sees is the distinguished old man in the middle, because aside from the fact that he has so many medals pinned on his dress uniform it’s a wonder he doesn’t keel over from the weight, the man is also — unfortunately familiar. The last time Sam had seen General Thaddeus Ross, he’d given Sam an empty plate and told him to go to the kitchen to fetch more wine, boy, what kind of service do you have here? Never mind that it was the awarding ceremony for the various scholarships awarded by the USAF and Sam had been one of its distinguished awardees, with a lanyard clearly labeling him as one. He considered it one of his finer moments that he’d let that one go.

 

At present, General Ross still looks like a dick. He also still looks at everyone like a dick, his eyes sweeping coolly through the crowd, his handlebar mustache failing to hide the disdainful twist of his mouth; but now aside from the usual annoyance at seeing the older man Sam’s definitely feeling a healthy thread of fear.

  
  


_“Where’s Colonel Rhodes?”_

 

_“He went back to work. See,” Tony Stark gestured to the screen, “In my dumpster diving that somehow branched into various companies, government agencies, and one very skeevy waffle house at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, there is one name that keeps on popping up, so either this man has the worst luck in the world or he’s really an evil douchebag.” He cocks his head. “Have you heard of Thaddeus Ross? He’s a — ”_

 

_“Major General of the Air Force,” Sam says. “Yeah, I know him.”_

  
  


The one on Ross’ right is a younger man built like a macktruck, who can probably be called ‘ruggedly handsome’ if his expression weren’t so cold and blank. ‘Rumlow’ is spelled in bold, black letters on the chest pocket of his military uniform. The blonde woman on his left is scrolling through a tablet, the light washing her pale skin in an eerie glow as she speaks in a low, rapid murmur. Ross has one ear tilted to her as his eyes continue scanning the crowd, looking for something. Or someone.

 

The Bad Feeling rears its ugly head.

 

Ross locks eyes with Sam — and stays there.

 

He jerks his head to Sam’s direction, and the trio briskly starts to move down the middle aisle.

 

The woman with a tablet pastes on a smile for the crowd, which as a whole is doing a poor job of not staring. “Nothing to see here, people!! We just want the opinion of a distinguish medical professional!” she says, which is already suspect because Sam knows for a _fact_ that the Indian woman tending to the little girl at the corner is a trauma surgeon and the Japanese man Rumlow almost bowled over is a veteran EMT on paid vacation, but she pointedly glares until conversation had started up again, albeit _very, very_ reluctantly, until the noise was almost a normal level.

 

Dammit.

 

Sam pretends, he keeps his face in mild curiosity, lets it flick over the three of them, before going back to face his siblings, where the pretense drops and a wide-eyed imploring look of restrained panic takes its place. “Keep cool,” he hisses, looking each of his sibling in the eye. “But you know how in stories there’s evil aliens and evil people?” At Gideon’s subtle nod, he emphasizes, “ _Evil people_.”

 

Sarah’s eyes dart between him and the approaching group, lips tight. “Sam — ”

 

“EVIL. PEOPLE.”

 

He hears their steps coming closer, and when a “Samuel Thomas Wilson?” is thrown into the air, Sam schools his face back to normal and pretends to startle. _Who? Me?_

 

“Yes?” Sam asks, carefully wiping his palms and standing up. He hears Sarah and Gideon do the same.

 

“There’s the young man,” Ross says, walking towards him. His eyes flicker from Sam to the children on the sleeping behind them then to his siblings, and he adds, “And you must be his siblings, yes? Gideon Wilson and Sarah Wilson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

Sam takes the offered handshake, watches his siblings do the same as stiff introductions were exchanged, and endures the head-to-toe inspection he receives from Ross as the man wordlessly gets the tablet from his companion.

 

“— likewise,” Gideon is saying as he drops his hands, a wary tone creeping into his voice. “Is there something the matter, sir?”

 

“Nothing serious, Mr. Gideon. Just a few questions,” Ross says, smiling genially with all teeth. “You’re free to answer too if you want, as is Ms Wilson,” he nods politely to Sarah, “but mostly I’m here to ask a few questions for Samuel. If he's willing.”

 

“I don’t really know what this is about, sir,” Sam says slowly, “but if I can answer I will.”

 

“Good, good, all I ask is that you try. Nothing bad with trying, even if it doesn’t bear fruit,” Ross hums, scrolling through the tablet, “Though I must say your efforts _usually_ bear fruit, Mr. Wilson, eh?” He gives Sam an appraising stare. “Olympic-level athlete with a degree in Biomechanical Engineering in Stanford University, who then decided that wasn’t enough and went into an MD/PhD program under the James Rhodes Scholarship.” He looks at Sam appraisingly. “You’ve represented the country from competitions to conferences, and now here you are, on your last year, after which you pledge to serve your country as a medic, a pilot, and a soldier rolled into one. Quite patriotic.”

 

“Thank you,” Sam says warily.

 

“Your profile speaks of impeccable work ethic and unparalleled excellence.” Ross raises his eyebrows. He’s the same height as Sam, but he somehow manages to look _down_ on him, creepy and patronising. “I hope I’m not wrong in assuming that you have honor and honesty as well.”

 

“I … would like to think so too, yes?” Sam says, in lieu of the _what the fuck_ that’s threatening to spill from his lips. Inwardly, he can feel his hackles rising.

 

“I will get to the point: New footage that came into light have created questions I’m hoping _you_ can answer,” Ross says, and here his voice creeps lower to discourage being overheard. “With what I had read and what you just told me, I would expect nothing from you but the truth.” His tone wasn’t a question.

 

“Of course,” Sam says, nodding vigorously. “I’ll help any way I can.” And, shit, that’s maybe taking it a little too much because Ross stares at him for about three solid seconds before he hands him the tablet.

 

The scene is shaky and dark at first, as whoever was holding the camera climbed the steps leading out of a subway entrance, the sound alternating between their panting breaths and short bursts of conversation with their companions. Sam gets a glimpse of the weapons being carried by the others: guns, knives, tazers. The view clears the ground and —

 

— it takes every bit of acting chops he has to maintain his innocently puzzled expression when he looks at the screen and sees the Hulk’s face upclose, immortalized in some bystander’s uploaded YouTube video. As he watches, the camera zooms out, showing Sam hopping off Hulk’s hands to rush towards the welcoming party with his hands up, screaming at them not to shoot the big green guy crouching and looming behind them. He approaches the leader of the little group, but the camera pans instead to where Sarah’s stumbling off a huge, green hand resting on the ground, her son held protectively in front of her.

 

The camera follows her figure as she runs towards them, as they were absorbed into the group, and that would have been it, but the Sam on the screen separates himself from the crowd and sprints back to Hulk. The view shakes for a while as whoever was holding the camera tries to zoom back to Sam, and when they finally get him in the view it shows him slowing to a stop in front of Hulk, mouth moving but the view too far to see or hear the words. That would have been it, honestly, it would have been nothing, just someone who maybe was a little bit too dumbstruck at the enormity of what he was seeing, of what saved him. Hell, it could be a movie moment, where the protagonist of the story pushes through the fear in their heart to thank the mindless beast that saved them from a gruesome death —

 

— except Sam followed it up with a punch to the Hulk’s thigh (the only part he can comfortably reach enough to punch), combined with a sliver-thin view of his face wearing the kind of constipated expression you’d give when you're frustrated (which he was) and angry (which he was) and really, really worried (which he was) for the well-being of someone you can somehow call a friend (which … the Hulk kind of was).

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Ross abruptly turns off the tablet. “I want to know what happened,” he says. “More importantly, I want to know _why_ it helped you, Mr Wilson.” He leans in. “What did you say and how did you tame it? Did it speak to you?”

 

“I don’t - that’s a lot of questions I wouldn’t be able to answer,” Sam lies, shaking his head. “Really, all I know is that when we were backed into a corner by a bunch of those aliens, one second we were staring at the end of their weapons and the next second he jumped from the sky and smashed them all to bits.”

 

“That’s true,” Sarah agrees. “And after everything he scooped us out of the ground and helped us get back to safety.”

 

“Are you suggesting it deliberately went out of its way to _save_ you?” Ross asks flatly. “This creature is responsible for the deaths of good people who serve this country. It is violent, bloodthirsty, and entirely self-serving.”

 

“With all due respect, that video shows otherwise,” Sarah points out, and she meets Ross’ intense stare with a steady one of her own. “Frankly, we would have died had it not been for — that.”

 

“Pardon the bluntness, ma'am, but you _should_ have,” Ross says. “In fact, that thing is equally a danger — if not more so — than any alien. It does not _help_ anyone by its own volition. That is what makes us concerned. We have been trying to find it for some time, fearing the moment it is triggered to go on another bloody rampage. This anomalous display could be a pretence. A calm before the storm. Which is why finding him is a priority almost equal to fixing the aftermath of an extraterrestrial invasion.”

 

Something in Sam twists at that, remembering how Banner looked like as he practically bled out on his couch.

 

“Didn't feel like a monster to me,” he says mildly. “Maybe he’s just a danger to those who want to harm him.”

 

There’s a heavy, heavy pause after that.

 

“Do you know this creature, Mr. Wilson?” Ross finally asks.

 

“No.”

 

Ross’ eyes bore into his. “That’s the truth?”

 

“It’s the truth,” Sam replies. “Look, are you implying that I’m, what, hiding a giant green monster in my one-bedroom apartment, feeding it with my daily diet of ramen and water, and somehow bonding with it in between 36-hour shifts in the hospital? I can’t even take care of a house plant, sir. How’s that gonna be possible?”

 

Ross flushes, opens his mouth to reply, but then he snaps it shut, his mouth pressing into a thin line. Beside him, the woman is looking at them all disapprovingly, and Rumlow is having a staring contest with Gideon that Sam has no doubt the latter wants to win.

 

“I see,” Ross says stiffly. “Very well, then I believe this conversation has come to an end. Thank you for your time,” He gives a much more formal handshake to each of them and then immediately gestures for his two underlings to follow him. They leave without saying anything else, and in their wake the atmosphere suddenly seems lighter, and conversations now spring anew from around the room as everyone lost their barely hidden interest in their little group.

 

It’s Sarah who breaks the silence after a few seconds. “I gotta say: your little speech was pretty convincing, if a little too sarcastic,” she says.

 

“You think he believes you?” Gideon wonders aloud.

 

“I seriously hope he does,” Sam says. “Because if he’s going to go ahead and torture me for information, he’s gonna be _sorely_ disappointed.”

 

Gideon whacks him upside the head, making him squawk. “Don’t be morbid.”

 

“Joking!” Sam squawks. “I was joking — !”

 

His older brother is frowning at him. “You will _not_ be tortured for information, what the fuck kind of joke is that, Sam?”

 

“I will not be tortured for information,” Sam repeats meekly, because Gideon is entering Dad Mode and it’s not something he wants directed at him.

 

“There’s more to the story,” Sarah says, as they all plop back to the floor. She crosses her arms. “Isn’t there?”

 

“Not here!” Sam hisses, inwardly thinking about what _,_ exactly, can he tell his siblings that’s not included in the informal and unspoken NDAs he’s pretty sure he’s signed. And of that small list of allowable information, which piece will _not_ cause an aneurysm.

 

“I knew it,” Sarah says. She pinches the bridge of her nose, her expression long-suffering. “You adopted the giant green monster. Oh my god, I cannot _believe —_ do you have any idea what can happen to — ”

 

“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Sam says quickly. “I really _don’t_ know him! But I do know his — alter ego.”

 

Gideon twitches. “Alter ego?”

 

“Look, it’s like a Jekyll and Hyde thing — ” Sam frowns. “Wait, no, it wasn’t like he _wanted_ to be a green monster to indulge in murder. Someone forced him. Not Jekyll and Hyde, definitely.” He winces, because, fuck, Jekyll literally murdered people. Bruce was a _human experiment._ The comparison’s kind of crass. “What I mean is — ”

 

“You know what,” Gideon says abruptly. “Let’s postpone this whole thing until later.” He casually leans back against the wall, eyes flicking to their surroundings, and Sam realizes that more than a few eyes are still on them.

 

“Yeah. Yeah, definitely,” Sam says, relieved.

 

Sarah’s glaring at the nearest eavesdropper, who immediately turns red and looks away. “Preferably in private,” she says darkly.

 

Gideon hums in agreement. “No kids, definitely.” He pauses, and then wisely adds, “And with alcohol. Lots of alcohol.”

 

“ _Yes._ ”

 

—-

 

In the great big fabric of the cosmos, it’s a known fact that the universe has a volatile sense of humor. Sometimes, it embraces great things like puns and memes and cats, but sometimes it veers straight into shitty territory, where it hears sarcastic coping mechanisms like saying ‘ _If he’s gonna torture me for information, he’s gonna be sorely disappointed’,_ smiles beatifically when it looks at that person’s life, and goes, “ _Dude, I have a great idea.”_

 

Which is probably why in the middle of the night, after Sam wakes up to answer nature’s call in a bathroom near the tent, he opens the door of his stall and finds his way out blocked by Rumlow.

 

“Boo,” Rumlow says, right before he thrusts the electric baton at Sam’s stomach.

 

_C-crack!_

 

The crackle of electricity is loud in the silence of the bathroom. Pain like Sam has never felt before spreads from the contact point, and his muscles involuntarily contract, spasming in agony. He goes down, but before his head hits the rim of the toilet Rumlow steps closer, wraps an arm around him, and jabs something sharp into his neck.

 

Almost immediately, Sam feels heavy, numbness and paralysis spreading throughout his body. He’s helpless as he’s brought out of the cubicle and slowly lowered to the ground.

 

Another person appears beyond Rumlow’s shoulder.

 

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Rumlow’s companion murmurs. He’s dressed in a formal suit, of all things, and as slim and slender as Rumlow was jacked. His spidery fingers curl over Rumlow’s shoulder as he leans to take a better look. His neatly trimmed beard doesn’t hide the way he leers when he meets Sam’s wide eyes. “Perfect specimen. You’ll do.”

 

The other man grunts. “Still think we should just kill him. Make it look like an accident.”

 

“But you cannot. He is mine.” Those simple words turn Sam’s stomach cold. “But you can, ah, _interrogate_ , while we work.” He smiles. “It will be  a wonderful way to further assess the neural network.”

 

“Ross was dumb,” Rumlow says bluntly. “He shouldn’t have barged into that tent. We could’ve done this in the first place. That brother and sister will immediately pin this on him.”

 

“A dumb thing?” Spidery Fingers echoes, amused. “What an easy thing for you to say. You don’t have them breathing down your neck.”

 

Rumlow snorts. “He’s grasping at straws. Look at this kid. A spy? Fucking really?” He jostles Sam’s side with a few contemptuous kicks. Something falls out of his pocket, and when Rumlow bends to pick it up he’s dismayed to see his phone, the one Natasha gave him.

 

“Look, it’s a fucking Nokia,” Rumlow says, waving the phone in the air. “The hell can he do with this?” He makes a disparaging sound. “He’s either fucking nosy or he was at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Rumlow drops the phone back to the ground. “Either way, he should just die.”

 

Sam’s vision starts to blur, darkening around the edges.

 

“I want him to be reborn; but if, god forbid, he dies? It will not be here,” Spindly Fingers says sharply, booking no argument. “I need more subjects, and the recent increase in security is making it difficult to get more. Everyone we find helps.” A pause. “Besides, we’ve had the occasional success with the poorest and the most pathetic.” A sigh like a slimy caress. “Imagine what we can do with someone in this kind of physical condition.”

 

“He’s not a _nobody_. People will talk.”

 

“Not forever.” Spindly Fingers steps beside Rumlow, giving a light caress to Sam’s face that makes him want to scream. “Take him to the transport. I will follow shortly. I just need to talk to Ross about the shipments. That man is annoyingly evasive when he wants to be.”

 

“Fine.”

 

Sam only has time to see Rumlow crushing his phone under his foot before everything blacks out.

 

 

**SIX.**

 

 

When Sam next regains consciousness, it’s in the thin edge between the last cloudy wisps of sleep and the dagger-sharp poke of some kind of light dragging him back to wakefulness. His body feels like it’s one big ache and his stomach muscles in particular are still screaming bloody murder, but the surface he’s lying on is hard and moving and bumping and his hearing’s good enough to discern the noisy squeaking of wheels, so: a gurney, most likely. As carefully as he can, he opens one eye by a smidge, and the first thing he sees is the large nostrils of whoever’s pushing him. It was connected to a pockmarked chin and a bulging neck that disappears into a white uniform. An unwelcome sight, really, even if his vision’s blurry.

 

The second thing he sees is the evenly spaced white lights overhead, shining bright against a dull gray ceiling and equally dull walls. The place feels closed and cold. The familiar smell of antiseptic hangs in the air.

 

Sam doesn’t know where the hell they are, but it’s very, very possible that he’s not anywhere in New York anymore. Somehow, he instinctively knows that a considerable amount of time has passed. Enough to cross a city. Or even a whole damn state.

 

_“I need more subjects,” Spindly Fingers said._

 

Fuck. He has to get out of here.

 

A bump on the floor interrupts the gurney’s smooth transport, hard enough to jostle Sam. He uses it to let his head fall to the left, and then times it so that the next jerk of the gurney coincides with his head turning to right.

 

It’s the same picture both ways: Metal walls. Sterile environment. Cold everywhere.

 

“Stop pushing so hard!” It was another voice, somewhere at Sam’s feet. Annoyed. “You could wake him up. If he starts panicking and brains himself somewhere Zola’s gonna get mad, and I’m blaming your ass.”

 

The man above him snorts. “Like hell he will. He got a second shot before being shipped to Washington. He’s about as awake as a comatose man right now.”

 

 _Washington_?

 

The reply was sharp. “They gave him the preprepared dose, dumbass. That’s for dying and starving schmucks. I won’t be surprised if he starts waking up right now.” There’s a pause, where said dumbass must have nonverbally asked a question. “He looks fit,” the man clarifies exasperatedly. “ _Healthy._ I don’t know who the fuck this is but this isn’t some hobo plucked from the streets.”

 

Sam keeps as comatose-looking as possible to prove him wrong, which proves to be hard because a hand suddenly slaps Sam on the cheek.

 

“Jesus, untwist your panties, you paranoid bastard.” The hand slaps Sam on the cheek again, once, twice, three times. The third one was particularly stinging. “See? Out cold. You gotta trust them science people, Marty. It’s probably a one size fits all kinda drug.”

 

Sam uses the sting to push himself awake. _Thank you, dumbass._

 

“Fuck you, Donny. I just want this one to not keel over and die like all the others. Zola takes it out on us folk and I hate it."

 

A snigger. “You wanna blame him or… the other guy? I heard it’s his fault they started doing this shit again. I dare you to say that to his face.”

 

“If it is, then it’s damn good they’re terminating him,” Marty grumbles. “He’s lucky he’s the only one left. I’m _glad_ they’re finally punishing him.”

 

“He ain’t lucky ‘cos he’s the only one,” Donny says, full out snickering. “He’s lucky ‘cos he’s fucking terrifying.”

 

“Shut up, Donny. It’s all rumors. Prolly just some two-bit asshole like the rest of them.”

 

“Marty, I heard he did it by _killing all the others._ All others like him! Tha’s what I heard!”

 

“And I heard he’s been killing since the forties,” Marty says sarcastically. “It’s all rumors. Come on, Donny, man up!” The gurney stops in front of a locked double door. It’s made of metal, a yellow and black stripe bisecting both halves horizontally. Sam opens his eyes a smidge wider to see what’s happening. A wiry blonde in the same white uniform as Donny —this must be Marty — steps forward, picks up a card from one of many hanging on his lanyard, and uses it to open the doors.

 

They wheel him into a large circular room, this one much more brightly lit, with two operating tables placed evenly across the space, trays and drawers surrounding each and large surgical lights arching over them. At the far wall is another set of double doors with the same striped band bisecting both halves, but this time it was red-and-black. As Sam’s gurney is swung to face sideways, he notices the glass encircling the whole room right above them. Currently, the whole thing was transparent, showing three rows of leather chairs looking out into the space below.

 

A viewing platform, Sam realizes, horror churning in his gut. It only gets worse when he notices that below the viewing platform, all along the walls, were cells, each sealed by thick, reinforced steel bars, the depths of each bathed in darkness.

 

“Speaking of,” Marty says, throwing a vindictive grin at Donny. “I can’t believe they let him out.” As the both of them push the gurney against one of the operating beds, Marty steps away to one of the cells. Sam can’t see anything from his angle but he hears Marty say, “Dear god, he looks like shit. This is the guy everyone’s scared about?” He takes out his baton and raps the bars hard. “Oi, you mangy bastard! We got you a new playmate! How excited are you?”

 

There’s no answering voice, but Sam can here movement, like the scrape of nails on a surface, the swishing sound of cloth dragging on the floor. Somehow, the lack of response makes it seem more ominous.

 

Donny seems to think so too. “Quit it,” he says, the gruffness of his tone fails to hide how nervous he is. “He knows they’re shanking him once this batch is complete. Guy with nothin’ to lose. You don’t know what he could do.”

 

“He’s locked up and starving, Donny,” Marty huffs, still staring into the cell. “What the hell can he do?”

 

There’s an answering _clang_ of something metal. Marty stumbles a few steps back, and when he turns back around his face is just _daring_ Donny to say anything. Sam hastily closes his eyes shut.

 

“Freak,” Marty mutters, and he grasps the linen underneath Sam’s feet. “Come on, help me get him on the table.”

 

Feigning unconsciousness, Sam lets his full weight rest on the linen, let’s his body go with the motion. Despite the recent ramen-and-water diet, Sam’s not light in any way and he’s taller than average, so it takes a few minutes for them to fully transfer him. As far as he’s concerned, more time is definitely a good thing.  The dosage is _not_ one size for all, which is a fucking relief. Already Sam’s brain is less sluggish than before even if his body still feels like jelly. All he needs is more time. Time to recover, time for his body to metabolize the drug faster.

 

There’s a pause in activity, and then:

 

“Marty, where are the prep materials?” Donny demands. There’s the sound of drawers opening and closing.

 

“The camera. Where’s the camera for the brain shit?” Marty asks. There’s a shuffle of papers, the sound of objects hitting the floor.  “Fuck. _Where’s his lab results?”_

 

“The techs said they forwarded it already. It should be here by now!”

 

“Shit. Shit, fuck. Zola will have our balls. You know how he gets when he has to wait!” Their voices are right above him now. Sam keeps his eyes carefully closed.

 

“Marty, the prep drawer’s empty. There’s nothing here and — _you_ said it was ‘all in order’ before!” Accusing.

 

“I said no such thing!” An aggrieved sigh. “I’ll stay here. You go fetch the hospital gown and the lab results — ”

 

“Are you kidding me? They’re in completely different sections and I ain’t gonna run to the other side of the building for some papers!”

 

“We can’t leave him here unsupervised!”

 

“I told you: He! Ain’t! Awake!” Sam barely keeps himself from making a sound when hands roughly grab his chin and twists his head up and to the side. A mulish tone enters Donny’s voice. “And if he’s gonna be he’ll be too loopy to think. You wanna risk Zola going in here to find nothin’ prepared but — ”

 

“Okay, fine! Fuck, come on, at least let’s strap him in. And cover him. If anyone sees they’ll think he’s at least prepped.”

 

They put straps around his knees, the hip, and the shoulders, and then drape him with something rough and thin and smells like it’s been dipped in chlorine and bleached a thousand times. Sam risks peeking his eyes a smidge, and then opening it wider when all he sees is white, white clothing. He can hear Marty and Donny’s moving to go back out the entrance, their conversation gradually fading away.

 

“Why didn’t they just change him on the plane? And brought the labs? I mean, they did it right there, the hell…”

 

“Probably had no time. Have you seen the news? New York is a shitstorm. Wouldn’t be surprised if they just grabbed people left and right and hauled them into other facilities…”

 

The conversation is cut off by the doors falling closed. In the silence that follows, he doesn’t dare open his eyes or move at all. He can feel the fabric of his own clothes, the only familiar smell, but it’s a cold comfort now that he has an inkling about what’s going to happen. Hell, they’d gotten his blood while he was blacked out, and now they were going to, what, operate on him? Like what they did with Bruce Banner? A camera for a _brain specimen,_ what the fuck —

 

 _Stop_. _Not gonna help,_ he thinks, breathing through his panic. So they’d already changed his clothes, they said something about labs. That means they’ve done all the blood work-up, and the results were tolerable enough for them to go through with surgery. The only thing left, usually, is prep. Clean the site, make a sterile field for the surgeon. It’s usually the underlings who do that, and given what he just heard, he knows who’ll play that role here.

 

When they come back, they’ll expect someone unconscious, or maybe someone drugged up too their eyeballs, too nauseous from the after effects to resist. Someone pliant.

 

Underneath the cover, he flexes his hands, his toes, feels the give in his knees that were too stiff to move before.

 

Sam waits.

  


—

  


The buzzing shears echo throughout the room, and what little hair Sam has falls to the floor. He wants to give them shit about being nice enough to give him a free haircut before possibly lobotomizing him, but he knows the importance of playing like he just woke up from being practically dead.

 

Bitching at his captors will probably give him away.

 

The two had taken their time. When they finally returned, Sam, while still cotton-mouthed from the drug, had regained enough wits to fake incremental movements that suggested he’s coming slowly awake. A groaning hostage on the verge of nausea’s apparently a normal thing here, though, because the two had barely blinked an eye before sneering and manhandling Sam out of the bed. They forced him to change into a hospital gown that left his ass bare to the cold; and after that, they had handcuffed his wrists in front of him and forced him to sit back on the narrow operating table so they’d shave whatever hair he still fucking had. The humiliation that had coursed through him had nearly broken through his act, but he tamped it down, bottled it up… and waited.

 

The other prisoner — The Soldier — hadn’t show up all throughout the ordeal. Sam doesn’t even know what cell they’re in, but he gets the feeling that it’s just the four of them in this room. Two prisoners, two guards. Whatever the hell these people are doing, they need more guinea pigs.

 

_“Probably had no time. Have you seen the news? New York is a shitstorm. Wouldn’t be surprised if they just grabbed people left and right and hauled them into other facilities…”_

 

The thought that there were others like this scattered around the world…

 

Sam’s fingers curl into fists. With a pang, he thinks about the aborted conversation with his siblings. His family’s most likely looking for him, and they don’t know that he’d gotten himself into something much, much bigger than they can imagine.

 

God, if he survives this Gideon’s going to _kill_ him for making that joke.  

 

He also can't help but mourn the loss of Natasha’s phone. He’s pretty sure that had a tracker somewhere. Hell, maybe he _could_ have just chucked it at Marty’s head.

 

 _But then_ , a voice whispers in his head, _even if you called, Steve and the others have better things to worry about._

 

He has to admit that statement sucks, but it’s the truth. Whatever went down in New York looks dangerous, and it somehow involves his superpowered friends saving the whole damn world. Sam’s self-aware enough to know that in the grand scale of things, saving his life is not going to be a top priority, not against millions of others, and rightly so.

 

Which means he has to stay alive. He has to escape.

 

The thought of just — disappearing from the face of the earth and becoming a sacrifice to whatever these people are cooking up makes him scared, but it also makes him _angry_.

 

Like hell will he let them get away with this.

 

Like hell will he not fight before he dies.

 

(But if he does — _if he does_ — he’s gonna make sure it’ll be worth it. Like a whole lab facility’s worth. A whole operation of human fucking trafficking and experimentation worth.)

 

One opening. He just needs one opening.

 

“Done,” Marty says from behind, running a slimy palm along Sam’s newly shorn head, sending disgusted chills pulsing through his whole body. “Not much of an improvement, but — ”

 

“Fuck you,” Sam croaks. _Come closer._

 

Donny, having finished laying out all the prep materials on a rolling table somewhere off Sam’s side, chuckles.  “Show some respect, dog,” he sneers, walking up to Sam. He fondles a full syringe with one hand and threateningly reaches for his baton with the other. He’d smacked Sam painfully on the calves with it once, when he thought his prisoner was too slow in getting undressed.

 

Donny steps closer.

 

_More._

 

“Make me,” Sam says. He makes it weak and thready, but when he bares his teeth, he doesn’t have to fake the near-helpless rage. Lies always work better with a bit of truth.

 

A hand snakes from the back to wrap tight against his chin and forces his face up. The angle _hurts_ , and Sam starts to gasp and struggle despite everything, his breath coming in short pants, his eyes wide and trained onto the ceiling’s bright lights. Marty puts his face beside Sam’s ear. The tip of a baton presses against the Sam’s flank, a clear sign of threat.

 

“Shut up,” Marty hisses, the baton tapping against Sam’s side. “Or I start electrifying your guts out. Understood?”

 

Sam nods frantically. He doesn’t have to fake the way he’s fucking shaking, but he ruthlessly controls it because — the man is already _behind_ him — he just has to —- little by little, he lets out whimpers, lets his shoulders drop in defeat, lets himself deflate —

 

— and it works like a charm: the baton’s pulled away, the hand under his chin loosens, and Sam falls forward even more as Marty laughs and starts to move back, his rancid breath moving from Sam’s ear to blowing against the curve of his scalp. At the same time, Donny steps into _just_ the perfect distance —

 

 _Now_.

 

Sam clenches his teeth, brings his head back in a forceful thrust and _smashes_ his head onto Marty’s face, feeling it give.

 

The scream Marty lets out at his newly broken nose is music to his ears.

 

Immediately, his right foot kicks straight up, and it connects _beautifully_ with Donny’s chin. The man's head snaps back and he stumbles back a few steps, desperately tries and fails to stop himself falling backward. The syringe he’s holding falls to the floor.

 

Sam hops off the bed and turns. He sees Marty groaning on the floor on the other side of the bed, in between two rolling tables, one with sterile instruments and the other with the shaving kit they used to cut his hair. He runs around and with two hard kicks in quick succession he brings both crashing to the ground, sending the shaving kit and IV solutions and knives and clamps and who knows what else raining to floor or hitting flesh. Marty’s yelling, curling in a fetal position.

 

Sam turns  —

 

— and darts backward, barely avoiding a thousand volts of electricity straight to his stomach. With his arms tied in front, he fights to regain his balance, ignores the protest of his muscles, and focuses on the unholy rage twisting through Donny’s features, the grotesque picture of a clearly dislocated jaw. He swerves and ducks Donny’s sloppy moves, looking for an opening until — _there_.

 

Sam kicks the baton out of Donny’s hands, and when his foot lands back on the ground he doesn’t stop: he hooks it firmly around Donny’s front leg, and with a hard tug he sends the man tumbling to the floor.

 

There’s a crackle of electricity at his back, and Sam instinctively _ducks_ , swearing, as he barely evades the baton that went arcing through where his head had been a scant second ago. He turns, sees Marty too close for comfort — sees the _opening_ presented in that split second Marty’s arm is all the way to the side from swinging the baton like a baseball bat, and without second thoughts he _strikes_ : front foot a step forward, back foot lifting up, and with a cry he plants it on Marty’s vulnerable stomach and kicks him back, hard enough that it sends him careening straight to one of the cell bars —

 

— where a pale, bruised hand shoots out from the inside and wraps itself around Marty’s neck.

 

Sam freezes, unable to help himself, as Marty tries to claw his way out of the tight grip. His desperate hands claw on the prisoner — The _Soldier’s —_ skin, scoring red, angry marks, but the vise around his neck doesn’t let up one bit. Inch by inch, Marty is lifted to his tiptoes, flailing as his oxygen is cut off, his face rapidly turning purple —

 

It was this distraction that almost cost him.

 

A meaty arm encase Sam’s own neck, another around his chest, choking off air, and he struggles wildly, his arms straining against its binds, as Donny tries to suffocate him to death. It was useless. Donny was bigger than him. It was like struggling against a brick wall.

 

“Kill you,” Donny pants in his ear, the words painfully forced through his injury, garbled and wild and hateful. “Kill you and then I’ll kill  _him_!”

 

Sam’s vision is rapidly turning back. The man still wouldn’t budge —

 

With a choked off cry of rage, Sam jumps, both feet high in the air, pushing his upper half against Donny, and when he goes back down he hits both of his heels straight to the other man’s vulnerable shins with a sickening crush. Donny’s scream is deafeningly painful, and the tightening of his arms nearly made him black out, but Sam follows through: as his hit briefly displaces Donny’s feet from the floor, he pulls his upper body _forward_ , and with the loss of Danny’s anchor to the ground and his arms still around Sam’s neck, the man goes _flying,_ arms forcibly released as he goes up and up and _over_ Sam, landing with a hard thud to the ground.

 

Sam hits the ground practically head first, his tied arms barely able to catch his weight. Pain explodes on his face, on his kneecaps, but he pushes it away and with heave he looks up —

 

Donny has rolled over, and he’s getting to his knees, one hand cradling his head and the other reaching for the scalpel laying just out of range  —

 

Sam picks himself up from the floor, sprints the scant distance between the two of them, and knees Donny hard on the face. Donny’s head snaps back for a second time.

 

This time, when he falls to the floor, he doesn’t get back up, well and truly unconscious.

 

And more than that, his body isn’t the only one who falls to the ground.

 

Across from Sam, the hand lifting Marty bodily from the floor lets him go, letting him fall like a limp puppet cut from strings.

 

The difference is that Marty’s clearly not breathing.

 

There’s a few tense seconds where Sam stares into the darkness of the cell, panting and frozen in place, indecision warring through him. The Soldier did help Sam and he’s clearly one of the first victims of this horrific place, but he’d also effortlessly crushed Marty’s windpipe with his own hand. And the way the two orderlies talked about the other prisoner: like a ferocious killing machine, someone who would have no qualms about leaping at Sam and taking the keys if Sam ever unlocks that door to get him help, he could definitely —

 

“You can go now.”

 

... What.

 

The Soldier’s voice is rough from disuse, but it’s like a physical force that practically commanded Sam.

 

Only the puzzling message itself made Sam stop.

 

“Excuse me?”  Sam says slowly.

 

“They both have keys. Free yourself with either and use the cards to get through the doors.”

 

Sam steps closer, cautious. “Don’t you want to go out — ”

 

“ _No_ ,” The Soldier says forcefully, making Sam stop. “You have thirty-two minutes before Zola gets here. He likes to start at the same time. Thinks it’s lucky.”

 

“Don’t you _want_ to come with me?” Sam demands, and it’s completely _stupid_ question but his - his stupid brain is doing that thing again, that thing where he takes a read on a stranger and — god, he hasn't even seen his face -

 

“I just killed someone,” The Soldier says flatly. “What makes you think I won’t do the same to you?”

 

“Gut feeling,” Sam replies. His heart is pounding, he is acutely feeling of the press of time, and he has _never been more aware_ that he’s standing before someone who can kill him with his pinky, but it’s true. God help him, but it’s true.

 

“I _strangled_ him to death.”

 

“But he was kind of a dick, yeah?” Sam counters, a little hysterically, because he was really, really doing this. “What with the — er, human experimentation and everything.”

 

There's a pause, before: “Yeah, he was.”

 

Sam walks towards the cell —

 

“ _Stop._ You have exactly thirty minutes left. You should _go_.”

 

“They’re terminating you!”

 

“Don’t care.”

 

Sam wants to scream. “ _Why_ do you not care??”

 

“Because I killed all the others but I’m like them. I killed them all but there’s still me.”

 

“Why did you kill them?”

 

“Because the alternative is having fucking brainwashed assassins running around the world, following these bastards’ orders, _that’s why,_ ” the voice says, rising in volume and sharpness. Then, much more soft and steeped in weariness: “Just go. I’m the last. I need to die.”

 

What kind of noble, self-sacrificing —

 

Sam takes a step forward. “You were able to free yourself! Hell, you're standing here now!” He brings up both hands, wraps them both on one of the bars, and says urgently, “Do you know where the others are? People like me? Help me free the others and then we can get out together. I know people who can help you and whoever else we find and they can — ”

 

“ _What_.”

 

Sam shuts up at the new tone The Soldier takes, low and dangerous. There a shuffle from inside the cell, the sound of someone standing up, their rough clothes scratching and pulling through the movement, and Sam backs away.

 

“I mean, they probably won’t be crazy about how you look right now, but — ”

 

From the farthest side of the cell, someone emerges silently from the shadows: a pair of bare feet… loose, drawstring pants cinched tight around a hard waist… a bare chest riddled with scars… then, finally, an unshaven face with stringy shoulder-length brown hair. His left shoulder ends in a criss-cross of scars, and his right arm is shackled to a metal ball twice the size of his head. The man was all muscle and bone, lean bordering on gaunt, but neither that nor the absence of an arm diminishes the power radiating from his person.

 

“Free the others?” The Soldier repeats, his face expressionless.

 

Sam blinks. “Yeah. They said there were others — ”

 

“No!” The Soldier grasps the bars with his hand, leaning into the space between. His lips press together, and a muscle jumps in his jaw, like he’s fighting not to scream at him some more.  “You have to get out,” he grist out instead. There’s a desperate tone seeping into his rough voice, almost pleading. “You’re the first one to — ”

 

“I don’t want to get out!” Sam snaps. “Not now! They said they had a whole horde of people! New research subjects! Some of them were supposedly brought here!” He steps back towards the cell. “You gotta help me find them.”

 

“Why?” The Soldier demands, banging on the cell hard. “Why the hell — ”

 

“What do you mean why?! Because they could be alive? Because it _matters_?”

 

“They’re not,” The Soldier interrupts, and he steps back to the cell. “Most of them died on that operating table. Some of them went through that door.” He shakes his head. “No one goes back out.”

 

“Except you.”

 

“No, I’m not — I wasn’t. I was from before — a long time ago.” For a split second, grief twists The Soldier’s features, so stark and sudden that Sam feels it like it was his own, before it disappears. He takes one more step backward. “You — you have no idea. If you get caught again — ”

 

At the corner of his eye, Sam spies the steel doors he’d pointed to, the one leading further into the room, their red-and-black stripes a beacon beckoning him. He imagines people crammed up in cages like these, to be plucked and experimented on without warning, and he feels desperate anger churn in his belly. Whatever secrets this place has is just there, almost within his reach, tucked behind a door painted like a warning, and it would be better — it would be _so much better,_ he realizes — if he doesn’t have to do this alone, not if he doesn't have to.

 

“Come on, man. Help me do this.” Sam pleads.

 

Silence greets his plea.

 

No answer.

 

Sam takes a step back, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, ok. That’s fine,” he says, and he abruptly turns away, going to where Donny’s body lies sprawled on the floor. With his hands slippery with sweat and shaky with adrenaline, it takes what feels like an eternity to get the keys hanging off Donny's belt and slot it inside the keyhole - had to use his _mouth_ to turn the stupid key - but after that he works fast, stripping the man of his pass card and the baton. Sam sees the camera on the floor — ‘ _camera for the brain shit,’_ Sam thinks wildly — fallen in the middle of the chaos that happened. He picks it up and tests it, relief shooting through him when the stupid thing seems to be working perfectly. He spies a USB hub on its side too, so that’s great. If he spots no prisoners at the very least he can take evidence (if he escapes) or brain someone’s head in (if he doesn't escape and right before he dies, probably). Perfect. Absolute amaz —

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Going inside,” Sam answers shortly. “I got twenty minutes. Plenty of time to take a peek.”

 

“You’ll _die_.” Anger and incredulity wars in The Soldier’s tone.

 

“I’ll think of something,” Sam retorts, inwardly adding a very fervent _I hope_. He hurries to the table where his discarded clothes lay and where his meagre belongings are in a pile next to them: Natasha’s coin and Steve’s knife and the ticket to the _Wicked_ show that feels like it happened a million years ago. There’s also his keys, dangling on a keychain together with two USBs, one shaped like an airplane and the other a steth, because he — as his sister puts it affectionately — was and will always be a nerd.

 

 _Dangerous_ , Sam thinks furiously. Dangerous to think about his family when he’s already this scared.

 

He quickly changes back to his alien-singed clothes, jams his feet into his thankfully intact shoes —

 

“Give me the keys.”

 

Sam pauses, frowning. “What?” He turns around. “I’ll give them to you before I leave just wait —”

 

“Give me the keys,” The Soldier says again. He’s back at the bars again, clutching the metal, looking like he’s torn between strangling Sam and storming back inside the cell. The former should have scared the _shit_ out of him, but instead he feels hope bloom in his chest.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“You’re a fucking idiot and you're going to die,” The Soldier snarls instead, but Sam doesn’t care because the man shakes the bars again and growls, “Give it here!”

 

“Right!”

 

The Soldier grabs the tossed keys. In no time at all he’s unlocked the door, his shackled hand, even the ones on his feet. The jet-black metal monstrosities fall to the floor with a heavy thump, echoing around the room.

 

The Soldier walks over to where Sam’s putting all his things back inside his pockets. “Here,” Sam says, giving him Donny’s baton. “I’ll get the other one.” He picks up the old army knife —

 

A hand shoots out, stopping him from pocketing the knife. Suddenly, the Soldier is too close, staring at the thing with an intensity that makes Sam let out a strangled noise.

 

“Where’d you get this?” the Soldier asks, his voice quiet and unreadable. He runs the pad of his thumb on the worn leather of the knife’s sheath, stopping just before it covers the near-unreadable _S.R._ imprinted on the surface.

 

Sam tugs his hand, but it’s not with as much force as he’d like to, because in the harsh bright lights of the room, the Soldier almost looks sad. “A friend,” he offers, and when there’s still no response he adds, “Dude, you’re creeping me out.”

 

“So it was really him,” The Soldier murmurs.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

The Soldier shakes his head. “Nothing. Let’s go.”

 

They dash to the doors and Sam swipes the keycard over the reader. The rumble of gears fills the air and a red light starts blinking overhead. Sam glances at the clock placed right above the doors. Twenty minutes until the supposed surgery —

 

“The whole thing’s likely wired to an alarm somewhere outside,” The Solider says abruptly, like he’s reading Sam’s mind. “Someone will always know whenever this door opens. Like now. We won’t _have_ twenty minutes.”

 

Sam turns to stare at him. “You said he starts at exactly the same time!”

 

The Soldier glares balefully. “Not if someone’s going through his own damn lab, he won’t.”

 

With a hiss of pressurized air, the heavy metal doors slowly part, revealing a short corridor with an open archway at the end.

 

“You are such a liar!”

 

“I’m a fucking assassin, Wilson.”

 

“How the — how did you know my name?!”

 

“Assassin.” The Soldier says, like that explains everything. He's obviously still hung up on Sam's decision to stay, but whatever. Sam will take it as long as he's going inside the creepy room with him.

 

“A completely understandable reason,” Sam says instead, rolling his eyes.

 

In response, The Soldier only bares his teeth in a frankly disturbing approximation of a smile.

 

They step inside, and Sam plugs his USB into the camera port and turns the camera on, setting it on record.

 

“Hey, Wilson?”

 

“Yeah?” Sam says, and he hates how his voice shakes. He can feel the adrenaline surging through his veins. He’s pretty sure his hands are shaking.

 

“Call me James.”

  


—-

  


When they clear the hallway and take their first steps into what lies beyond, Sam’s first thought was: _this can’t be real_.

 

It’s a rectangular room, and they’re standing at the very end of a walkway smack in its center. On either side are two rows of three tanks full of green, gelatinous fluid, like giant graduated cylinders where the triangular base was full of screens and buttons, each emitting their own light. The lighting _in_ the room was a duller white than the one they’d been from, but it fails to hide what’s inside each tank.

 

_This can’t be real._

 

Beside him, James lets out a small, hurt sound, like it was forcefully torn out of him, and that sound alone brings Sam crashing to the present: here, most likely, is what had been done to James.

 

“They started already,” James whispers. He goes further inside,“I can’t believe — it took _years_ then, and I thought — I thought they were failing, I — I _destroyed_ — ” His hands ghost over the glass of the nearest tank, like he wants to reach through and grab the person’s hand.

 

Because it _was_ a person inside the tank, an honest-to-god human being with their naked body in a loose anatomical position, floating in the viscous fluid. Tubes run from their nose and mouth, going downwards and disappearing to the floor of the tank. Their faces are tilted up, and covering their scalp all the way to their right eye was a black helmet, connected to the ceiling by a metal rod, wires and electrode sprouting like limbs from the glossy surface, twisting downwards and joining the ones on the floor.

 

“Holy fuck,” Sam whispers, horror and sorrow warring inside him. “So these are — these are the new, what, they're new soldiers?” He spies a tank at the middle bank, and nearly recoils when he sees the floating figure of a child, no more than thirteen.

 

“No,” James says hollowly. “Not yet. This is the beginning. If they survive then — yeah. Yeah, they could.”

 

“Can we get them out?” Sam hates that he already knows the answer. “We can — we can — ”

 

“No,” James says harshly. “That’s not them anymore, and if you take them out before — before whatever they're waiting for happens, it will be worse.” He shakes his head. “Don’t.”

 

Sam’s eyes flit all over the room, looking at their nameless faces in each tank. One of the tanks on the right — at the middle of the second row — was filled with gel but unoccupied, and he feels his blood run cold.

 

_That one was for me._

 

When James speaks again, it’s ragged. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve —”

 

“And we will,” Sam says, determined. He senses the press of time, but now more than ever he wants to expose them. He wants the people who did this to _answer_ for it. Sam forces himself to turn away from the ghastly sight and gestures for James to follow him. “C’mon.”

 

And after a beat, James does, his face grim and pale. Together, they go back to the central path. At the far end are a line of offices, each with a glass wall that allows the occupants to see the horror they’re responsible for. Hallways branch out to the left and right, leading to more closed doors. They quickly explore these first, splitting up to see if there’s any people left to help — or, god forbid, more of these monstrosities — but there’s none. The two branches are mirrors of each other, containing mostly smaller labs built to hold smaller equipment, storage rooms containing jars Sam firmly _did not_ look too closely at, pantries that looks so fucking _normal_ in the face of something this heinous, and at the very end of each hall is a room containing all manner of gas tanks usually needed for research laboratories like this.

 

No prisoners.

 

They go back to the middle. While Sam’s taking more pictures, James barges into the centermost office and heads straight for the computer perched on the large, sleek desk. In no time at all, he has it booted up and running about a thousand windows, his fingers tapping away.

 

Sam runs over to him. “You can send files to the outside?” he asks. “The firewalls on this whole place — ”

 

“Broke them,” James grunts. He reaches out a hand to Sam. “Give me your USBs.” He grabs it off Sam’s outstretched hand and plugs them both in, and immediately pictures and documents and recordings illuminate his face. James’ fingers continue to fly across the page, and a few seconds later it all disappears, replaced by black, the cursor blinking. James looks at Sam expectantly and says, “Affiliation.”

 

Sam frowns. “Excuse me?”

 

“Affiliation,” James repeats impatiently. “Who are you working for? Give me the agency and I will type in whatever longwinded access code your bosses think are too good to be decrypted and send the files —” He spots the confusion on Sam’s face, blinks once, twice, before eyes widen imperceptibly, “You’re not affiliated?”

 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sam says.

 

“FBI? CIA? MI6?” James demands, rapid-fire.

 

“What — no!”

 

“You’re a free agent?” James asks, cocking an eyebrow. "How much did your employer give you for you to agree to this m - "

 

“I am a _medical student!”_ Sam snaps, and James’ eyes _bug out,_ disdain replaced by shock.

 

“You’re a civilian,” James hisses, horror bleeding into his voice, and for a precious second the typing stops, “You’re a damn _student?”_ And while Sam is glad because it’s frankly the most intense emotion that man has displayed in front of him barring rage, now is _not the time_.

 

“Type now, judgement later!” Sam pokes and prods James to go back to typing. Later, Sam will realize how lucky he was then that he didn’t lose his finger but right now: “Send it to, shit — ” Sam says, thinking fast, and the obvious answer hits him. “Send it to Colonel James Rhodes.” Another name strikes. “James Rhodes and Tony Stark!” Sam says urgently. “I swear they can be trusted. Do you know — ”

 

But then James is already typing away. “James Rhodes, Colonel of the US Air Force, and Anthony Stark, CEO of Stark Industries. Sending to personal server.” A progress bar replaces the black box, steadily transferring data.

 

Thank fuck for creepy assassins and their stalker tendencies. “Alright, come on,” Sam says, moving to go out the room, “Let’s go — ”

 

A strong grip on his arm stops him in place. Sam turns to find James out of his seat, his ears cocked and listening to something Sam can’t hear.

 

“They’re here?”

 

“They’re here,” James confirms, his expression grim.

 

“How many?”

 

“Too many,” James says darkly, and a split second later he’s pushing Sam towards the exit. Sam yelps at the sudden movement, vainly tries to fight it, but despite James’ weakened state the man is _freakishly_ strong. It’s like trying to push against a boulder.

 

James ignores his protests. “Go to the sides of the door. When it opens, I’ll open fire. You slip out while they distra —”

 

“Wha — _No!_ ” Sam digs his heels in with new strength. “What is it with you people and dying?!”

 

“Why the hell are you - you have to _escape,”_ James looks aggrieved. “I can hold them off long enough — ”

 

“I’m not asking you to!”

 

“Well, that’s great!” James snaps. “Do you have a plan?”

 

…

 

“...Yes,” Sam says defiantly. “But I have to know something first.”

 

“ _What?”_ James looks like he wants to strangle him again.

 

“Where exactly in Washington are we?”

 

—-

 

“Find them.”

 

Sam quietly closes the door and backs further into the storage room, the grease in his skin making it hard for him to do so without slipping. He’d wished for anger from their pursuers, the type that shouts and screams and shoots the ceiling in warning. People like that tend to shoot first and ask questions later, but they’re also prone to so many mistakes. Those words were said calmly, coldly, but in a way that somehow reverberated all the way to Sam’s hiding place. It was in the tones of someone who’s _used_ to being obeyed.

 

Dammit.

 

The only illumination now comes from the small pinlights mounted on the shelves, highlighting one specimen bottle each. Sam feels the weight of the camera around his neck.

 

“Split up! Search every nook and cranny! Bring them here!” It was an unwelcome and unfortunately familiar voice.

 

Sam’s frankly not surprised to find Rumlow in the middle of this.

 

There’s the heavy sound of running boots as god knows how many — police? Soldiers? — spread out and start looking. Sam clutches the old army knife, which isn’t even that good at being a knife _now_ , since its edges were dulled practically to a nub from all the hacking and sawing Sam and James had done in record time. Sam had never moved so _fast_ in his life, _fuck_ , and even then they’d barely had enough time to go to their positions.

 

God, he hopes his calculations were right. Exact. Accurate. The alternative is — not good.

 

_Six tanks …. three on each end… estimated lab space …_

 

The sound of doors opening and slamming are coming closer and closer. He’d left this door and the one at the very end — the one next to _this —_ open.

 

Sam readies himself, closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths. They’d find him first, and it’s not going to be pretty. He uses the idle time to spread the gelatinous material over his whole body even more. His face, his neck, his clothes — everything was slathered with the fluid, the same one inside those tanks in the main room. He ignores his shaking hands.

  


_Hack. Hack. “They’re using hydrophilic gel, right?”  Grunt. Gush of air. Wipe sweat. “We use them for bed sores.”_

 

_Grab. Pull. “Yeah, well, in here it’s for cryogenic stasis.”  Pull. And pull. And pu — a gush of air. “Bodies don’t kill well when they’re decaying.”_

  


The door bursts open. Sam faces front, arms up, as a guard — no, a _soldier_ — comes charging inside. And then another. And then another.

  


_Hack. Hack. Gush of air. “Right. Right right right right — okay, now go for a soak, relax, and, uh, how long can you hold your breath again?”_

 

 _A pause. Dawning realization. “Are you fucking_ serious.”

 

“ _Dead serious, man. Dead —” Hack. Hack. Gush of air. “ — serious.”_

  


“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!” the one in front yells as his companions come pouring in.

 

They swarm Sam, their guns trained on him, and he’s manhandled out the door and into the hallway. When they reach the main space, Sam sees none other than Spindly Fingers standing before the door, facing out into the main lab, a king surveying his kingdom. He’s wearing a different suit now, a pure white instead of black, eerily clean when contrasted against the carnage around him. A few yards in front of the man lies the remnants of the tank James had broken, the viscous gel Sam had practically _bathed in_ spread in goops on the floor. They had lain the body of its previous occupant on the floor, as respectfully as they could. There was a clean slice through its neck courtesy of James.

 

If Spindly Fingers thinks it unusual, his expression doesn’t betray it. Beside him, armed to the teeth, was Brock Rumlow. Sam can see three more guards on the other hallway, systematically opening each door.

 

Spindly Fingers is different from how Sam recalls; he looks like he’s aged ten years, and the leering, manic energy he exuded god knows how many days ago has been replaced with something calculating and contained.

 

Spindly Fingers flicks a glance towards Sam and jerks his head, and in that small movement the soldiers around Sam obey an unspoken order and pushes Sam harder, letting him stumble, until he’s shoved down to his knees in front of old man, his arms up in the air.

 

This close, Sam can see the ID neatly clipped on Spindly Fingers’ breast pocket: A. ZOLA II, M.D., MSc., Ph.D.

 

 _Zola? As in Armin Zola?_ Sam thinks, eyes widening. The comics says he died  — but no. Armin Zola II. The second. _Holy fuck, that disgusting slime ball fucking reprodu_ —

 

“Give me the device,” Zola says, cutting off Sam’s spiraling thoughts.

 

One of the guards emerges from the central office, holding out a tiny stethoscope-shaped USB. At the same time, the camera is yanked off Sam’s neck. Zola makes a show of swiping through the pictures, twice, thrice, before he smashes them both to the ground. When he steps forward, he pointedly grounds a heel on a broken piece.

 

“Our people are in the process of intercepting your messages,” Zola tells him. “They won’t reach your contacts in time.”

 

_Fuck._

 

“Where is he?” Zola asks. “I know you are not alone, Mr. Wilson.”

 

“Go to hell,” Sam says, looking him in the eye. He feels the other USB crammed in his shoes, resting underneath the arch of his foot, thinks about last-minute backup plans that rests on too much luck and balls and prayer.

 

“Why are you protecting a killer?” Zola frowns at him. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Doesn’t that go against your oath?”

 

Sam doesn’t answer. Zola’s face darkens.

 

From the scientist’s side, Rumlow snarls, stalking up to Sam, “I’ll make you talk.” He moves to swing his baton —

 

“No, stop,” Zola commands. “Let’s all be civilized here.” His tone can almost be described as fatherly, infused with warmth, frankly laughable in the face of everything in the room. “I want him to answer. Sam?”

 

 _No. No,_ Sam thinks furiously, frustrated. His arms are still up in surrender, unable to move lest he gets shot. _No to being civilized!_ He _needs_ to be punished —

 

Not privy to Sam’s thoughts, Zola continues to press, asking, raising an eyebrow, “Is it pity?” When he still receives no answer, he shakes his head. “Idiocy. After this is over, we’ll find him. We always do. A dog only needs the right command to go back to its master. I know my pet. But you —  ” He takes a step closer. “What’s your plan, son?” When he receives no answer, he insists, curiosity coloring his voice. “How will you escape this?”

 

No answer.

 

The barest tightening in Zola’s expression. “Are you planning to die? Do you really not care about who’s going to loo —- ”

 

 _Like hell I don’t_. “Why are you doing this?” Sam asks abruptly, glaring. Arms still raised in the air, aching.

 

There’s a pause. Then: “To gain knowledge, sacrifices must be made, some lives given for the cause. To build a better world sometimes means having to tear the old one down. And to tear it down, we need enforcers — ”

 

“So _you_ get to decide who’s given to the cause? Man, shut up,” Sam scoffs, letting insolence creep into his tone. “Human experiments are part of a better world? Really?”

 

This time, when Rumlow strides closer to pistol-whip Sam, Zola doesn’t stop him, and with a crack Sam’s head snaps back, pain exploding from his jaw.

 

_Yes!_

 

The force of the blow sends him against the legs of the soldiers behind him, and he goes with the movement: slumping, curling to the side in a fetal position, putting up a feeble fight as Zola orders the guards to drag him up. He makes sure it covers the way his hands are reaching inside his shirt pocket, fumbling for a special coin he got from a dangerous red-headed friend —

 

And then he creates an opening.

 

Sam kicks the knees of two guards, ruthlessly pulls back the pinky of one with an iron grip around his arm, and once it’s free he pulls the arm in and _smashes_ his elbow against the groin of the one behind him. There’s a lot of yelling, cursing, the sound of guns cocking, the sound if someone _shooting_ , but Sam ignores it all because finally, _finally_ one of the guards stumbles back. In the split second he gets a glimpse of the ceiling, Sam _hurls_ the coin with all the speed he can muster, straight up in the air and almost kissing the ceiling.

 

Sparks danced.

 

Rumlow’s eyes widen, understanding coming a second too late. “Get _do_ —!”

 

_Boom!_

 

The detonation blows Sam backward, flying through the air, as above him the whole ceiling becomes a _blanket_ of flames, greedily spreading outward. Breaking glass mixes with the hellfire, slicing through smoke and skin. He crosses his arms across his face and imagines the chaos fire going straight for the source: six huge tanks inside the farthest doors of each hall, their tubes and lines hacked and open, the gas bleeding out and into the room, where it would have floated up, undetectable, to the highest parts of the lab, just waiting for a spark.

 

Hydrogen gas: odorless, the lightest out of all the elements, and highly, _highly_ explosive.

 

Welcome to science, motherfuckers.

 

Sam lands on the floor and slides on his back. The viscous gel’s protecting him from skidding painfully, but more than that, it’s protecting him from being _cooked_ from the flames, providing a bit of insulation from the unbearable heat in the same way it kept the poor test subjects from decaying.

 

The other people around Sam aren’t so lucky: they thrash and flounder, weapons useless as the fire greedily eats up their clothes, their bodies, their faces. Their screams spiraled in volume and pitch, so intense it reaches Sam’s blast-deafened ears.

 

Sam pushes himself up to his knees with trembling hands, choking from the smoke and the rapidly dwindling supply of air, blinking his tearing eyes to get a better view of his surroundings. The fire was _everywhere,_ turning the whole place into an inferno. Flames danced inside the offices, the glass windows a casualty of the explosion. Most of the tanks in the main room have exploded, and charred equipment lay scattered on the floor amidst the burning bodies of everyone who had been standing over Sam’s kneeling form mere seconds ago.

 

Well … almost everyone.

 

As Sam gets to his feet, another figure rises from the floor a few meters from him, dragging and clawing their way from behind the protection of a fallen, cracked tank.

 

Zola lifts an arm. He’s holding one of the guard’s pistols. He stumbles forward, screaming hate-filled unintelligible things, consumed with fulfilling one last act of revenge. His previously pristine suit is now in tatters, half his scalp burned off and dripping blood, and his rage equally as hot as the fire around them.

 

Sam takes a step backward — and pain immediately shoots up from his leg. He goes down, landing on his ass. It’s a throbbing, unholy pain, like his whole limb is burning, and when Sam glances down he sees blood coating the whole length of his left leg, from mid-thigh to his ankle.

 

 _I’ve been shot_ , Sam realizes numbly. _When —_

 

Zola points it at his face.

 

Sam scrambles backward, frantically looking for cover, agony shooting from his leg.

 

Zola cocks the gun —

 

— And another figure rises from beyond the fallen tank, naked body dripping the same viscous fluid that saved Sam. He’s clutching a baton in his only arm, his face set in cold rage, smeared with soot and blood. He steps up the tank, a wraith bathed in the light of fire, and the shadow he casts on the other man has Zola turning.

 

This time when Zola screams it’s one of fear.

 

The baton cracks against Zola’s face, cutting the man’s scream short as it smashes into his skull.

 

Armin Zola II drops to the ground.

 

James clambers down the tank, grabs Zola's gun, and hurries to Sam. “Your ideas _suck_ ,” he snarls, pushing the gun to his hands.

 

After they’d hacked through the tubes, after James had cracked one of the tanks, he’d stripped his clothes and submerged himself into the only remaining tank that’s unoccupied, the one in the middle of the second row. Sam had been banking on the thought that no one would look too closely at the tanks — either they’ve been so normalized to the atrocity that it becomes mundane or they’re too uncomfortable staring at it in the face — and he’d gambled _right_.

 

“It worked,” Sam says, a little hysterically, as James rips a piece of Sam’s shirt and ties it over the bullet wound on his thigh.

 

“Two centimeters to the left and it would have been your _femoral artery,_ you idiot!”

 

Hell, that actually had better odds than his first gamble: he’d put the chances that he’d be shot on sight to be very, very high. The scenarios of the aftermath ranged from a grievous limb-threatening injury to death. It’s a very limited range, but Sam is nothing if not realistic. He was just optimistic enough to bank on the grievous limb-threatening injury.

 

Fucking _shit_ , it’s still a miracle he’d escaped unscathed then.

 

Not that he’ll ever say that out loud.

 

So instead he says, a little maniacally because adrenaline: “But it’s not. And we’re both alive!”

 

James swears, flinging Sam’s arm around his own shoulders. “Not if this whole place explodes and _we’re still here!_ ”

 

And like the universe agrees, a massive boom sounds from one of the side halls. Hydrogen’s not the only one inside the far room, Sam remembers. All those tanks in this oven, leaking and bleeding gas and liquid, leaping and jumping through the tubings that connect them to all the other rooms in the facility…

 

“Yeah, okay, fair point,” Sam gasps, and as one they fled through the archway, through the steel doors, and out into the circular lab, supporting each other as best as they can with one arm missing and an injured thigh between them. Here, the smoke and heat has arrived ahead of them. There are alarms wailing and blaring loud enough for Sam’s eardrums to ring; and water from the sprinklers drips down to the floor, making the ground so much more slippery. They slow down long enough for James to grab the Sam’s discarded hospital gown, hygiene bedamned, and when they hurry out of the lab and down the hallway, they discover that all the rooms are now empty, no guards and no personnel.

 

In fact, no one tries to stop them as they moved, James directing them to go left, right, straight, and up, up, up as around them the world broke into flames and shrapnel and heat and smoke. They’re out of the bowels of the building after what seemed like _forever,_ onto the ground floor of one of the buildings. Beyond the windows, the rest of the buildings are also on fire, illuminating the whole place against the background of an inky-black sky, smoke obscuring the light of the moon and stars.

 

Together, they hobble out of the building and into the driveway outside. The parking lot is just right across it, a few abandoned cars left in some spots.

 

“Do you know how to hotwire a car?” Sam yells. It’s the only way to be heard in all this chaos.

 

“What, you don’t?” James snarks back, but he doesn’t argue when they make a beeline for the nearest vehicle, a sleek-looking gray SUV.

 

They go past the driveway and into the parking lot unscathed, and it looks like they’re gonna make it into their escape vehicle when —

 

_“желание!”_

 

James stops, so abrupt and unexpected that Sam almost trips, half-supported by the other man as he is.

 

_“ржaвый! Семнадцать!”_

 

“No,” James croaks, and he falls down, pressing his hand against one ear, curling into himself. “Stop!”

 

_“Рассвет! Печь!”_

 

Sam spins wildly, trying to pinpoint where — there. A black van a few yards away, the passenger door open. The engine is running. A man is walking out, holding a gun on one hand and a book on the other, bellowing out the words. He’s wearing a white coat, simple black pants and a singed white shirt, and there was a manic look in his eyes as he stalks towards them.

 

“Девять! добросердечный!”

 

“Run,” James snarls, and he starts pushing Sam away.

 

Sam slaps _his_ hand away furiously. “What the fuck — ”

 

“I can kill you!” And now terror bleeding into James’ voice. “He’ll make me kill you!”

 

“возвращение домой!”

 

 _Brainwashed assassin_. Shit, fuck. _Fuck_. Already, James’ spine is going rigid, his hand is digging into his hair, like he wants to yank out chunks. Sam pushes down the thrill of fear. He grabs James and stubbornly hangs on when the other tries to fight him. “Then don’t listen! We can still make it to the car!”

 

“It doesn’t ma — ”

 

“возвращение на родину!”

 

“COME ON!” Sam roars, and with a heave, he bodily hauls James back up, forcing him to go move.

 

But the man — the man simply follows them, eyes on James, naked anticipation and hunger in his face. When they flicker to Sam, they bleed contempt.  A smirk curls on his mouth —-

 

“Один!  грузовой — ”

 

_Boom!_

 

The vehicle behind the man _explodes,_ spraying shrapnel and plastic everywhere, as up above lightning comes crashing down from the sky, pinpoint and deadly, straight down to the vehicle like the wrath of a god. Thunder follows a split second, so loud and big it was like the earth itself shook. The man stumbles forward, blown by the explosion, his words faltering.

 

In desperation, James pushes Sam _hard,_ hard enough that he goes flying.

 

“Run!” James screams, before he turns back and launches himself forward.

 

The man raises his gun.

 

There’s another _crack_ , another _boom,_ thunder and lightning flashing through the sky. Sam hits the ground, pain exploding in his chest —

 

_“SON OF WIL!”_

 

He blacks out.

  


—-

  


When Sam wakes up, it’s to the floaty, dreamy sensation that suggests either he’s lost his whole body or his sleep debt for the past two decades is gone. He blinks blearily, catching sight of an unfamiliar ceiling, smells the ultra-comforting aroma of baking cookies, and hears the soft sounds of a Marvin Gaye song playing in the background. Combined with a bed that feels like he’s in a literal cloud and a stupidly warm blanket that contrasts with the slightly cold temperature, the whole thing smacks of so much comfort that Sam’s immediately _suspicious._

 

Then, an unfamiliar face looms into his view.

 

“He is awake!” the man says, beaming. “How do you feel?” and Sam wants to say a kneejerk response of _like shit_ but that.. would be lying because, as said before: _floaty sensation_.

 

God, its not even the feeling of extreme pain being vainly hidden by a lot of pain medications. He’s just… floating.

 

Sam squints at the stranger, sitting at his bedside and who is  — a sight, really: larger than life, with broad shoulders and muscled arms, all of which are straining majestically against an honest-to-god armor. His long blonde hair is paired with a handsome face and warm blue eyes and a rumbling voice like thunder — wait.

 

Shit. That’s the same voice he heard right before he got _shot._ He’s pretty sure he got shot and — Sam frantically pats his chest — fuck, he has _no_ chest wound whatsoever even though he clearly remembers —- and if you put _that_ voice with _this_ man and pair it with the fact that he heard it after he got _shot_ and now he’s in somewhere suspiciously comfortable, bright, and with no injury whatsoever _—_

 

“Oh, dear _god_ ,” Sam says, horrified. “Am I dead?”

 

But then the man blinks and goes, “No, you are not,” and he’s now looking way too miffed for a messenger of God. “Asgard has the best healers in the universe!”

 

And _what_.

 

“They do, you know,” a voice says, and when Sam whips his head to the door, it's to see Bruce Banner entering the room, a tray of food in hand and looking tired but pleased. “I’m glad you’re awake, Sam. You've got too many people wanting to strangle your neck.” He smiles wryly. “Me included.”

 

“Please don’t,” Sam says, laughing weakly. He sits up on his bed, noting how much it doesn’t hurt. Not even a little bit. Hell, he feels like he can _fly_. “How long have I been out?”

 

“Three days,” Bruce says, as he puts the food down in front of Sam. He sits next to the not-angel and gestures to him. “This is Thor,” he says. “He‘s the reason why you're still alive.”

 

“It was a group effort,” Thor says modestly.

 

“Well, uh, I got a feeling I should be thanking you both and then some,” Sam says, noting the dark circles under Bruce’s eyes. _Both of you and a lot more people,_ he thinks _._ He turns to Thor, who’s sitting at his bedside. “Hey, I —“ he stops, a connection forming in his head, before he slowly says, “— Thor.  Asgard. Thor as in God of Thunder?”

 

And Thor, the _God of Thunder_ , gives him a wide smile that’s very ungodlike. “Yes! And you are Samuel Wilson, am I correct?” At Sam’s slow nod, Thor adds, oblivious to Sam’s wide eyed stare, “Finally pleased to talk to you. The others have told me about your heroic efforts! Asgard is honored to have had a warrior like you in its halls.”

 

Sam carefully tucks away the fact that he was apparently in _another dimension_ while unconscious. He will freak out about that later. Much later. Now, he turns large eyes at the two of them. “Why — would my recovery need the help a god?”

 

“What do you remember?” Bruce asks, in that delicate way Sam usually uses in patients who were either terminal or high as a kite.

 

“I got shot — ” and with a jolt Sam remembers _why_ he got shot. “There was a man with me. We escaped that place together,” he says abruptly.  “James. Is he here? Did he — is he okay?” The last time he saw him, James was launching himself right at the person who was trying to control him, seconds after practically punting Sam through the air in a stupid attempt at _self-sacrifice_.

 

“… James,” Bruce repeats, a little faint. “Do you — I take it there wasn't any time to have proper introductions?”

 

And before Sam can answer a very empathetic ‘no, there was _not_ ’, Thor — Thor! — asks, “Ah, you're companion?” Thor places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He is well. We made it in due time. One more word and it would have been much harder to remove the mind alterations.” He shakes his head. “As it stands, undoing 70 years of HYDRA’s work is no easy feat. Your friend is still in the process of a very long recovery. But! Rest assured that James Barnes will never have to worry about those words every again.”

 

“Oh, that's — that's good,” Sam says, relieved and a little — a little dazed. The former because he never, ever wants to see again the look on James’ face when he heard those words. The latter is because, well:

 

“I'm sorry, but did you say seventy years?”

 

Bruce clears his throat, and he points to Sam’s chest. “The bullet nicked your heart, and you were so unstable that even the best medicine here can't save you.” He gestures to Thor. “But Asgardian medicine? Asgardian medicine is a whole different kettle. They put you in stasis, their healers managed to do their thing, and you were there for a grand total of forty-eight hours.” He smiles at Sam. “Figures you only wake up once you’re back here.”

 

“Oh,” Sam says numbly, and he presses a gentle hand to his chest. It was smooth and unblemished, not even the scars of his childhood and adolescence remaining.

 

“You were brought back here yesterday,” Thor says.

 

“ _Also_ , another thing that Asgardian medicine can do that ours can't,” Bruce plows on, catching Sam’s attention again. He currently looks like a man determined to get all the life-changing news out in the open in one big go and hoping that it’ll make it sound a bit less crazy, “Is to heal the work of seventy years of brainwashing. How — ” Bruce clears his throat, “— how far along are you in the Captain America comic books?”

 

“I finished it.” It ended, as Sam recalls, at the point where Captain America — Steve — crashed a plane into the arctic ice. _Another_ bout of self-sacrifice, so that’s par for the course with what Sam has witnessed so far.

 

“Sam,” Bruce says. “Sam, James’ full name is James Buchanan Barnes."

 

In the comic books, the recurring protagonists were Captain America, the beautiful and deadly Peggy Carter, and the merry band of men that make up their team. Dugan, Jacques, Morita, Gabe Jones, Falseworth… and the last one, the one who was there from the very start, Captain America's childhood best friend, right hand man on and off the battlefield, who fell from a moving train —

 

"No," Sam says flatly.

 

"Yes.”

 

"They said he died on the mission on the Alps!”

 

"He was captured by HYDRA," Bruce says gently. “Cryostasis. Brainwashed to be their assassin and spy. It would have gone on, but there was a mission six months ago.” He pauses. “He was tasked to infiltrate a search party in the Arctic sea claiming to have unearthed a very powerful energy source, but what he found instead was Steve, frozen inside his crashed plane, but definitely, definitely alive.” Bruce gives his a sad smile. “Part of their script was that Steve Rogers died, that he was unable to protect him. Finding Captain America caused a break in their hold, and he exploited it. Broke it multiple times in secret, sabotaged H.Y.D.R.A.’s worst projects, until they found out. He was scheduled for termination when he saw you." He gives Sam a small smile. “He said you were as stubborn as Steve."

 

Sam swallows. "So how is he?"

 

"He's been better," Bruce acquiesces, "But he's also been far, far worse. No more of those words, at least, but if you want a better description, you'd have to ask him yourself."

 

“And how fortunate,” Thor says, cocking his head, listening intently at something Sam can’t hear. “I believe they are here.”

 

And before Sam can react, the door bursts open with a bang, and the man himself strides in.

 

“You!” James Buchanan Barnes says, stomping towards Sam. When he reaches one of the chairs placed bedside he just sprawls over it and just — he just glares. “You didn't even have the decency to wake up while we were here?”

 

There's a moment when Sam doesn't know how to talk to him, this man he'd literally walked through an inferno with. Should he treat him like with delicacy? Respect? Awe? Dear god, he told a war hero he was _annoying._ He told James Barnes that he _sucks_. Forget delicacy, maybe he should apologize really… really hard.

 

"What's gotten into you?" James demands, when all Sam does is to blink at him, mouth gaping like a fish. The first, briefest flicker of uncertainty ripples across his face. “You’re acting weird, Wilson.”

 

_Or maybe you should just act normal, dumbass._

 

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right.

 

So instead of — whatever it is he planned on doing, Sam instead says, bland as mayonnaise, "Bucky Barnes. Really?”

 

James — _Bucky —_ looks at Bruce, raises an eyebrow, and then at Bruce’s helpless shrug he goes back to Sam and says, “What, you got something against my name?”

 

“No,” Sam says, “I have something against your everything." He spies a new figure in the doorway, looking at Bucky all soft and open, and calls out, "Steve, the emo bondage uniform looks ugly. I think the red-and-blue polka-dotted spandex is way better."

 

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “The what?”

 

“Hi, Sam,” Steve Rogers says, and he walks in to take a seat next to Bucky. He’d look super imposing in his dark blue stealth uniform if his face weren’t arranged into so much wobbly happiness.

 

Bucky turns to face his best friend. "Steve,” he demands. “What does he mean?”

 

Steve laughs softly. “Oh, god, Buck, I forgot to tell you,” he says, and Sam doesn't think his face could go even softer but somehow it _does._

 

“Red-and-blue polka-dotted spandex?”

 

“Yeah — yeah, so there’s this comic,” Steve says, and it’s a little bit shaking and a little bit vulnerable, but he’s grinning, and it's — it’s different, Sam realizes, Steve's different. Lighter. Brighter. Wonder in his eyes, and it occurs to Sam that if they'd all been handling Bucky like he's a loaded gun or a fragile flower — like how Sam first thought he should do — this should be the first time Steve’s seen him this animated.

 

"It's by the Commandos, Buck, a collaboration, and before you freak out about how you're depicted -- oh, Thor! Thor, can I borrow your copy? Just for a minute."

 

" _How_ , exactly, am I depicted?”

 

(And here is the side thought that Sam realizes Captain America is a tad bit in love with Sergeant Barnes and _oh god he's not even going to go into that drama_.)

 

Thor, for his part, promptly gives Bucky a copy of _Captain America and the Howling Commandos: Vol I._ One of the many, Sam realizes, that’s crammed under the small dresser beside his bed.

 

“Well, you were… a little bit de-aged — ”

 

“ _Gee whiz, Mr. Rogers!_ ” Sam blurts out, unable to help himself. It's a perfect imitation, if he does say so himself.

 

Bucky points a finger at him. "Not a word, Wilson, or I put you back in the hospital."

 

"I happen to like this one, thank you," Sam says grandly, gesturing to the whole place. "The only problem is that I'm seeing your face."

 

"Woah, wait a second, you think this place is a hospital?" a new voice butts into the conversation, and Tony Stark walks into the room. He’s not sporting any life-threatening injuries, looking dashing in a three-piece suit that costs more than Sam's soul. There’s also a mildly offended look on his face, but Sam’s pretty sure it’s all for show.

 

Sam looks around the room, which is easily four times the size of his apartment and ten times as grand. “A very, very rich private one,” he amends.

 

Tony scoffs. “Please, what hospital has this kind of view?” he asks, and with a flourish he pushes the curtains on one wall back, revealing floor-to-ceiling glass doors and a huge balcony, beyond which sits New York City bathed in cool, morning light. “You’re in my Tower! Make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa and all that. Hell, it’s the least I can do, especially after those _magnificent_ files you sent me.” He pauses. “The backup USB under your foot was a nice touch, too.”

 

Sam tears his eyes away from the trails of smoke partially obscuring the skies. “It reached you guys?” he breathes, sinking back down on the mattress and groaning. “Oh, thank god. I thought it was lost.”

 

“I think they managed to break Rhodey’s. It was a mess of code,” Tony says, sitting on the couch behind to Bruce. “But mine?” A vindicated smirk curls in his mouth. “Mine was all intact. I just finished handing it all off to Fury for the boring, legal bits, but it’s safe to say that the contents are very, _very_ incriminating.”

 

“And we found Pierce,” Natasha’s voice chimes in, and Sam looks to the balcony and — _holy shit_ — there she was, with windswept red hair that somehow manages to look artfully tousled even with the hard winds outside. Beside her, looking equally unruffled, was Clint, the wicked-looking arrows strapped to his back glinting in the sunlight.

 

“Hey, Wilson,” Natasha says, amused at his obvious gaping.

 

“Hey,” Sam say, waving weakly. He didn’t even hear them.

 

“Unnecessarily showy entrance,” Tony tells them once they’re inside.

 

“Pot, kettle,” Clint says, breaking out into a huge yawn. “Man, I’m beat.”

 

There’s a collective pause as the two newcomers make themselves comfortable, Natasha on a chair at the foot of the bed and Clint on the couch next to Tony. The archer gives Sam a friendly clap on the leg on the way to his spot.

 

Seeing them all there around his bed was a bit surreal.

 

“You found Pierce?” Bucky asks once they were all in their spots. He leans in, intent. Across from him, Thor reaches over and delicately plucks the comics from his hands right before they curl into vicious fists.

 

“Who’s Pierce?” Sam asks.

 

“Alexander Pierce. Secretary to the World Security Council,” Steve says, whose previously happy face has gone back to being grim, “And apparently the top undercover agent of H.Y.D.R.A in the United States Government, S.H.I.E.L.D., and the WSC.”

 

“We found him before he could disappear, and now he’s under guard by none other than Melinda May and her band of crazies,” Clint says, a little gleeful. “The trial’s gonna be public.”

 

Tony whistles. “May’s active again? Nice.”

 

“Alexander Pierce was the one Obadiah Stane and Thaddeus Ross reported to about their own little leg of H.Y.D.R.A.,” Bruce quietly clarifies to Sam.

 

Oh.

 

“So Stane was for things like arms dealing and supersoldier research,” Sam says slowly, “while Ross was all for, what, providing more incentives for the arms dealing and more test subjects for the super soldier research?” At Bruce’s confirmation, he asks, “Please tell me you got them, too.”

 

“Well, Stane’s dead. And as for Ross,” Bruce says, smiling slightly. “Ross was captured yesterday, trying to board a plane to East Asia. Did you know these guys were also responsible for bringing the Chitauri into this world?” He shakes his head. “He’ll be on trial with Pierce and all the others we managed to catch, but at this point it’s all a formality. The files you sent were the nail on their coffins. If nothing goes wrong they won't see the outside of a jail cell for a long, long time.”

 

“Speaking of those files,” Steve says. He nods to Sam. “You know that’s how we found you? Before that it was like you disappeared off the face of the earth. We traced the signal back to its source.” He smiles. “Your USB’s almost as old as me but it works alright.”

 

“Well, that and the big ass explosion that happened in the outskirts of Washington,” Clint amends.

 

“But how did you know I was missing?” Sam asks. “It was chaos in the aftermath of New York — ”

 

“Ah, that would be your very, very siblings,” Bruce says, eyes bright with amusement, and Sam _groans_.

 

“Oh, no. Oh, god,” Sam wants to claw his face.

 

The story comes out in bits and pieces, as the avengers take turns in filling Sam in on what happened from the moment he disappeared.

 

Apparently, the alien invasion had derailed their planned investigation of HYDRA possibly infiltrating S.H.I.E.L.D. itself. That would have been bad, frankly, but Natasha and Clint had already informed the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. of their suspicions and that, apparently, was a game changer. Nick Fury, Sam learns, is a terrifyingly efficient man who can simultaneously juggle spearheading the protection of the human race with keeping a paranoid eye out for possible traitors in his organization, so when Alexander Pierce sweet-talked the World Security Council to nuke the hell out of New York City — with only Nick Fury in the room as witness, since as Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. he’s technically the one who will give out the WSC’s orders — not even the man’s Nobel Peace Prize can save him from Nick Fury’s scrutiny.

 

“Fury fought the decision, but the World Security Council sided with Pierce and the missile was launched,” Natasha says.

 

“Alexander Pierce used the ‘sacrifice for the greater good’ line,” Steve says, a hint of bitterness seeping into his tone. “Millions of lives for the price of biilions. And it worked.”

 

“Of course, his real agenda was to wipe out, you know, _us_ , the Chituari,” Clint says, ticking them off his fingers, “And most importantly — ”

 

“My brother, Loki,” Thor says grimly.

 

Because as it turns out, H.Y.D.R.A was the _reason_ the Chitauri and Loki came to Earth in the first place. After Fury gave the metaphorical finger to the council and straight up told the Avengers to stop that nuclear warhead or so help me god, after Tony pulled his death-defying stunt and Hulk saved him from being a metal pancake on the ground, after Thor tied Loki to a lamppost beside a ruined shawarma stand, the god of mischief cheerfully recounted how H.Y.D.R.A. made an overconfident deal with him to sow chaos into the world by any means necessary so that "humanity will be reborn anew", molded into H.Y.D.R.A.’s vision of complete order and obedience. In return, H.Y.D.R.A promised Loki access to the Tessaract, a powerful energy source of unknown potential. They failed to realize that a) Loki could have just stolen that thing with a twitch of a pinky finger, b) they weren’t the only ones intent on world domination, c) chaos, to a god of mischief, can include ‘invading alien force’ and d) said invading force and the god they made a deal with had no intention of sharing the throne.

 

“There’s a bunch of names thrown in their somewhere — Zola 2.0, Ross, Stane, a bunch of high-ranking members of the S.H.I.E.L.D., nothing big, yeah? — but the primary contact between Loki and H.Y.D.R.A.?” Tony raises his eyebrows significantly. “None other than Alexander Pierce.”

 

Fury had immediately called for the arrest of Loki’s contacts and the ransacking of their offices. However, Pierce had abruptly called in sick, and more than that, his office had been squeaky clean. Furthermore, all the _others_ disappeared too — every single one of the people Loki singled out, gone who knows where, and their various offices and homes empty of anything useful.

 

Except one.

 

“When our squad got there, Ross’ office in New York was being turned upside down by a very angry pair of siblings,” Clint says dryly. “Scared the shit out of Ross’ guards, secretary, what have you, says they’re here for their little brother Samuel Wilson, who’s been missing for however long, and how they want to talk to Ross himself because they know he has something to do with her brother’s disappearance.”

 

“Your sister especially was two seconds away from stabbing the guard’s eye with her phone,” Natasha informs Sam approvingly.

 

“The guards were a full foot taller than her,” Steve points out. “I’m just relieved nothing bad happened.”

 

“Who would you have placed your bet on?” Clint challenges. “The guards or the sister?”

 

“The sister,” Natasha and Tony says in unison.

 

Sarah Wilson had told them about how, at first, they thought Sam had just left early for his shift that morning, as their workaholic brother was prone to do even if its just volunteer work. But then when he didn’t show up for lunch _or_ dinner, and when they couldn’t reach him through his phone, they started looking for him, asking and calling everyone they could find, until a day later they eventually ended up in Ross’ place, banging on the door and fighting off both the secretary and the guards a few minutes before Melinda May’s squad busted in.

 

“From what Agent May said, your siblings claim that Ross talked to you before you disappeared, and they definitely didn’t think it’s a coincidence that you ended up missing right after you apparently told him to, ah, _fuck off_ for what he did to me,” Bruce says. His tone is gently chiding, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that make the back of Sam’s neck feel hot.

 

“And, you know, there we were,” Tony says, waving his hand in the air for emphasis, “Scattered all over, neck-deep in a post-alien invasion and trying to weed out _anything_ from H.Y.D.R.A. when J.A.R.V.I.S alerts me to a huge file that started uploading _straight_ to my personal account after somehow bypassing about fifty personalized firewalls, and boom: infodump. Everything we need and more was there. We traced it back to a supposedly dead facility in Washington, opened the connection further,” Tony raises his eyebrows. “And imagine our surprise when we saw that aside from, you know,  incriminating records of horrific human experimentation, there’s also a freaking _selfie._ A literal selfie, Wilson, of a group of people in a beach, all grinning like nothing’s wrong with the world, and the one holding the camera, the one with the largest, happiest freaking face was - ”

 

“Me,” Sam says, stunned.

 

“You,” Tony confirms, leaning over and steeling his fingers. His eyes are bright with amusement. “And it would be hilarious, Wilson, it would honestly be _hilarious_ in any other circumstances — the _incongruity_ of a selfie next to literally _every other file in that USB_ and the fact that you have the _worst luck ever_ — except J.A.R.V.I.S. chose that moment to inform us that the location where that file came from just burst into flames _.”_

 

“None of us were near the area,” Natasha says, crossing her arms. Her expression is tight. “We wouldn’t have been able to get you out fast enough. Not even if we used Tony’s jet.”

 

“Or, hell, even Ironman’s not that fast,” Tony says, before adding under his breath: “For now.”

 

“But,” Steve emphasizes, pointedly gesturing at Thor, who nods at Sam. “We did have a god.”

 

“I saw him shoot you, but I was not fast enough to stop it,” Thor says, remorse seeping into his tone. “I apologize for that. I staunched the bleeding as much as I could and brought you both immediately to Asgard once I was able to contact Heimdall.”

 

“Don’t — don’t apologize for that, really,” Sam says. “I’m literally alive because of you.”

 

“And a lot of people are alive because _you_ , Mr. Wilson.”

 

Sam’s the only one who startles at the new voice, which cut through the conversation like a knife. Everyone else just stops whatever they were doing and looks to the door.

 

A black man stands on the entrance of Sam’s room, arms tucked inside a trench coat, and when he sees that all their attention is on him he starts walking towards the bed. The newcomer’s stroll was misleadingly casual, mainly because there was really nothing casual about him at all: the all-black ensemble, the heavy combat boots, and the black eyepatch stark against a stern face, and somehow, Sam instinctively knew that this was none other than —

 

“Name’s Nick Fury,” The man says, holding out a hand. His grip is firm, and in the brief seconds that they shake hands Sam feels Nick Fury’s lone eye raking over him like a brand, cool and assessing.

 

“Those files you and Sergeant Barnes sent,” Fury continues, “held the key strategies and stakeholders for their so-called super soldier program, the locations of all their main research facilities, and a thorough headcount of all the people they’ve kidnapped to be sacrificed to their cause. This isn’t the only program they have running, but it’s a good start. Big enough to catch the world’s attention, solid enough to draw it’s condemnation, and bad enough that anyone who’s found harboring H.Y.D.R.A.’s cowering leftovers will be raked over the coals.”

 

“ _Has_ there been anyone harboring H.Y.D.R.A.’s leftovers?” Steve asks, frowning.

 

“A few,” Natasha confirms, “but not enough to keep them going, and they’re easy to find now that their leadership’s gone. It will take years for them to recover.” Her face darkens. “Let them try.”

 

“Let them try indeed,” Fury says, smirking, before he shifts the subject and says, “Though there _is_ one more thing that needs to be answered, people, and at this point, I don’t even know if we’ll get a good answer.” His gaze shifts from Natasha to Sam and he drawls, “Mr. Wilson, I’m still wondering: How in the _hell_ did you end up smack in the middle of this mess? In _any other_ situation, I'd call it 'contrived' and haul you in for questioning, but," He eyes Sam beadily, "I have solid reasons to believe that's just not the case."

 

Indignant, Sam opens his mouth to say he doesn’t freaking _kno —_

 

“Nosy,” Natasha volunteers.

 

“Worst luck ever,” Clint says. “Worse than mine.”

 

Natasha holds up her hand, thumb and index finger held a hairsbreadth apart. “Almost, Barton,” she says, smirking.

 

“I am not!” Sam says.

 

“You’re like Forrest Gump, you know that, right?” Tony says, ignoring his protest. “Forrest Gump, but instead of, like, stumbling into ping pong diplomacy or Elvis Presley, you dive headfirst into someone’s _megalomania_.”

 

Steve points. “I get that reference and it’s absolutely _right_.”  

 

Thor nods thoughtfully. "In Asgard, we consider it fortuitous to have our presence in such momentous occasions. Many a warrior has proven their bravery in such circumstances.”

 

"Yeah? In here we call it 'pain in the ass'," Bucky says.

 

“Worst bedside manner _ever_ ,” Sam complains.

 

“The thing is I believe you. I do,” Fury says, and then he holds up his phone. “And yet, let me add another oddity to your long list of fortuitous life. Did you know that I had just been personally contacted by a certain Wakandan royalty? She’s asking me about your health." At Sam's blank look, Fury continues, "The princess regrets that certain events in her own country have prevented her from providing aid, but since this is _apparently_ going to change, she says that we should take very good care of her friend Samuel Wilson or risk - and I quote - the wrath of an antimatter deathray.”

 

There’s a sharp inhale from the side.

 

“Antimatter?” Bruce repeats, a hint of excitement in his eyes. “That’s impossible. There’s no way to properly contain it right now, much less harness it as a weapon.”

 

“Asgard can, but we use a mixture of uru and gold. The former is from our dwarven mines, though,” Thor says, thoughtful. “I have also heard Jane say that its production is much more expensive than feasible.” He leans, interested. “If you speak the truth…”

 

“More importantly: Wakanda?” Tony asks, crossing his arms, brow furrowing.  “Isn’t Wakanda an agricultural country?”

 

“Well, they lied,” Fury says flatly. “King T’Challa’s whole damn tux transformed into a nanotechnology-driven catsuit during his own live press conference in Washington a day ago. He also offered to aid in our rebuilding efforts in New York.” Fury looks torn between grudging admiration and a burgeoning migraine. “People, so many things have gone batshit insane the media doesn’t know what to cover. _Hopefully,_ this means we can fulfill his sister’s request to add a seemingly, _completely ordinary_ doctor to the first delegation to ever step foot in Wakandan territory without attracting unwanted attention.”

 

Tony whistles, impressed. “When is this happening?”

 

“About three weeks from now. From what I have heard, Wakanda has had its own share of problems these past few days. On the good side - for us, at least - it made them change their mind on continued isolation. Bad side is it caused a lot of property damage and we don’t know what the hell caused it, which is a little thing we would dearly like to know before we send anyone in. Hopefully, our contact in the CIA will be more than generous with the information.”

 

Sam, on the other hand, has been wracking his brain for that whole exchange. He frowns. “Wait, I don’t - Wakandan princess?”

 

Natasha and Clint had looked unsurprised upon Fury’s announcement. However, at the discovery of Sam’s apparent friendship with the Wakandan princess, both of them had perked up, a little disbelieving. Natasha’s only tell is a slight widening of her eyes, right before she shakes her head, a quiet, chuckle escaping.

 

Clint has no such restraints. He leans in, gleeful. “Wilson, please tell me you’re the illegitimate child of the former Wakandan King. _Please_.”

 

“Are you serious - No!”

 

Fury gives him an extremely judgmental look before taking a deep breath. “2013. Dungeons and Dragons. You fornicated with a dragon to get out of jail,” he says slowly, like every word was searingly painful. “She said you would know if I tell you that.” His face clearly says he would have preferred cutting of a limb than being the one who tells him, thank you, but has chosen diplomatic relations over dignity.

 

Wait.

 

“Oh my god,” Sam says, realization dawning. “ _Shuri_? Oh my god, she’s a _princess_?” Two seconds later: “WAIT, that’s NOT - ”

 

“Wilson did _what now_ ,” Bucky demands. He looks absolutely torn between gleeful and horrified. “Where? How? What??”

 

“Wow,” Tony says, hand over his mouth, looking dramatically scandalized. He nudges a very amused Bruce. “Kids these days, eh? What would - ”

 

“Did you bear children?” Thor asks. “You see, my brother Loki once gave birth to a horse - ”

 

Clint groans, putting his hands over his ears. “Goddammit, Thor! Out of all the legends that could be _true_ \- ”

 

“No! Natasha, stop _judging_ and Steve? No at whatever’s on your face. Thor, Dungeons and Dragons is an online game! She and I were new, okay, and we ended up with this stupid party who threw the both of us in jail while they fought the demigorgon - ”

 

“See, this is probably why she likes you,” Fury says mildly. He hands over the phone to Sam. “This is for you, actually. Delivered via a robotic falcon from god knows where Wakanda really is. She requests that you contact her here in the meantime.”

 

“But still! A bard? And a quest? What is this _demigorgon?_ ” Thor says, delighted. “Where can I find such a game?”

 

“Oh, buddy,” Clint says, patting him on the shoulder. “It’s on the internet. There is _so much more_ in there than demigorgons. It’s a rabbit hole.”

 

“You can’t go alone, though,” Steve suddenly says, and it was loud enough that everyone stops to listen.

 

“Why not?” Sam frowns. “She’s a friend, I mean — ”

 

“No, I’m not asking you to refuse,” Steve says quickly. To Fury, he says, “You said so yourself: Wakanda’s recently compromised,” Steve points out. “S.H.I.E.L.D.’s too. Sam’s practically the equivalent of a high-profile civilian guest on unknown, foreign territory. The only people we are completely sure won’t do him in is in this room.”

 

“Sam needs a bodyguard,” Bucky translates, nodding, like it was the best idea in the world and _what the fuck_. “One of us can be a bodyguard.”

 

“False!” Sam says loudly. “Definitely false!”

 

“No, Sam doesn’t need a bodyguard,” Natasha argues, and Sam almost, _almost_ put her on his not-shit list before she adds, “He needs a bodyguard disguised as a   _date_.”

 

“Two for the price of one,” Tony says thoughtfully. “Huh.”

 

“I see through your throne of lies,” Sam says, side-eyeing Nick Fury, who actually looks like he’s considering it. “You just want a legitimate excuse to keep an eye on a probable world power.”

 

“I am protecting a civilian,” Fury counters primly.

 

“Don’t you guys have other more world-changing events to consider???”

 

“Well, I mean,” Bruce starts delicately, lips twitching in amusement. “Sam, a new technologically advanced, resource-rich country appearing out of nowhere? It _is_ a world-changing event.”

 

“Speaking of the technology,” Tony says, eyes glazing a bit. “Can you imagine?” He looks like a kid that heard Christmas had come early.” He turns to Fury and says, “why can’t we all go? Who’s even in that stuffy delegation, anyway? We’re Earth’s Mightiest Heroes! Buzzfeed says so!”

 

“Earth’s Mightiest Heroes has a conference with the UN and the World Security Council on that same day to discuss the Battle of New York and the joint statement you will make to the press after the Triskelion disaster,” Fury says dryly. At the various looks of outrage and protests around the room, Fury raises an eyebrow. “The original was a _week_  of meetings _,_ thank you very much. I got it down to a day's worth of mandatory attendance in which you can’t _all_ be gone.”

 

“Are you serious?” Tony says. “What’s the minimum number of attendees?”

 

“I am not of this planet,” Thor says, frowning stubbornly. “I wish to visit a fellow royal!”

 

“No, wait,” Clint says. “Representative’s fine, right? They said we can’t all be gone. Ergo, even just _one_ \- ”

 

“I volunteer Tony,” Steve says serenely.

 

Tony gasps. “ _Traitor!_ ”

 

“I won’t bring any of you.” Sam leans back and attempts to suffocate himself with a pillow. “I’ll bring Helen Cho.”

 

“Ohhh, that’s nice. She’s also a civilian, isn’t she?” Clint says. “That means you need _two_ of us!”

 

“Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have to deal with the aftermath of an alien invasion and then some,” Sam points out.

 

“Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have plenty of time,” Natasha says, resting her elbow on the matters and cradling her chin. “It’s still weeks away, Sam, and we’re _very_ motivated.” She winks. “We have to keep you safe.”

 

“Lies! You guys are using me!”

 

“It’s what spies do,” Natasha says. She squeezes his foot once. Her smile is warm, her eyes mischievous as all hell.

 

“And there’s plenty of us,” Bucky says. Like Natasha, he looks completely earnest but also completely evil. “It’s called teamwork. Steve’s been teaching me stuff.”

 

“I hate you both.” Sam says.

 

“So who shall be Samuel’s partner?” Thor’s voice cuts in.

 

There’s five solid seconds of silence, the tension wracking up in the air, as each Avenger eyes every other member like they were in a very friendly competition with ill-concealed friendly violence. Sam can almost see them weighing the prospect of exploring an unknown country against the notion of spending a day full of endless meetings and endless conferences. It's obvious which one they find very, _very_ attractive.

 

It’s five solid seconds and then:

 

_“ME.”_

 

It’s pandemonium after that, with the conversation somehow shifting from who’s going to be Sam's date-bodyguard to who's sucking it up and going to the meetings to just outright hatching seventeen plans to derail the scheduled conferences and press conference. One included hacking Buzzfeed.

 

(Buzzfeed is apparently something Bucky has no idea about. It is also something that Clint and Tony will graciously (gleefully) fill him in for.)

 

And when they’ve all agreed on the third option, they circled straight back to how best to prepare for Wakanda, what this new country has in terms of possible cool technology, and how best to keep eight trackers, a weapon, and a mini-Iron man gauntlet on Sam Wilson without offending royalty, because their other agreement is that he’ll be neck deep in trouble ten minutes after setting foot in Wakandan soil.

 

In the midst of the chaos, Sam catches Fury’s eye. “The one and only time I meet their esteemed handler,” he says, deadpan. “And he throws me to the wolves.”

 

Said handler snorts. “The wolves like you and I doubt the feeling’s not mutual.”

 

…. Touché.

 

“And, I don’t know, Mr. Wilson,” Fury continues, a gleam flashing in his eyes. “With your _uncanny_ ability to be at the wrong place at the right time, I have a feeling we’ll be seeing other _much_ sooner than you think.”

  


 

**Epilogue (Of a Sort)**

 

A couple of years from now, a joint collaboration between the Wakandan and American government  will give birth to an experimental, military-grade winged harness designed for highly sensitive search-and-rescue missions, something that will give the ones doing the searching and rescuing a fighting chance of getting out alive if ever they were ambushed. They will need candidates: smart enough to instinctively work the harness, strong and agile enough to maneuver with its weight _midflight_ , and stalwart enough not to use it for something… not good.

 

They’ll need a candidate, and the head scientist of the Wakandan half will think of a military doctor fresh out of residency, fast climbing the ranks and actively going on missions that are somehow _almost_ _always_ more dangerous that usual, risking life and limb to save others, _completely_ opposite to what he preaches to his superpowered and exasperated friends, and she’ll say to the head scientist of the American half, gleefully, “I have the perfect candidate. He’s going to _freak_.”

 

And Bruce Banner will look at Princess Shuri thoughtfully, thinking of the exact same person, and he will laugh. “Yeah, I think he will.”

 

But, well. That’s a story for another day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just freakishly love Sam Wilson a lot, okay, and I wanted to write something to reflect that. I had fun writing this (although it ballooned WAAAAAYYYY past what I expected holy hell) and I hope you enjoyed reading it too. 
> 
> The idea for the hydrogen gas was based on a James Rollins novel years ago, back when I first started writing this. Really recommend that guy's work it is A+ for light summer reading.


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